


before the last of the light leaves the sky

by boogyugal (astroliker)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: M/M, alcohol and prescription drug mentions later on, and also mental health issues, and mingyu hansol and seungkwan are old friends, angst and fluff depending on my mood, ft. established jihan and soonhoon in the background, mostly just Gay Pining if we're being real, slowburn up the wazoo, wherein seungkwan and seokchan are cousins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22745641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astroliker/pseuds/boogyugal
Summary: When college student Seungkwan returns to his hometown of LA for the summer, he's expecting to hang out with his cousins and spend his days working in his uncle's bakery. He's not expecting to run into his childhood best friend, Mingyu Kim, who has inexplicably grown hot beyond belief. He's also not expecting to become friends with the best and most annoying people on the planet, or to break countless city and county laws, or to fall stupidly in love with a straight guy. But he's not about to question it when it seems like said straight guy might somehow like him back.
Relationships: Boo Seungkwan/Kim Mingyu
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello! welcome! i have 70k words of this written rn so if by whatever chance anybody would like to read the rest of it well.. i got u. anyway enjoy this fun gay time! this is just a cheeky lil intro chapter to get us oriented ;) sorry it's 5k words lmao

Seungkwan runs.

The train’s lights flash, doors beginning to retract, and he pinwheels his arms as fast as he can, breath seesawing in and out of his burning lungs. The chime indicating the train’s imminent departure echoes through the station as he pumps his legs, suitcase wheels groaning behind him, backpack straps cutting into his shoulders. Five meters, four, three, two—

“Ha!” He lets out a gasp, more of surprise than happiness, as he crosses the threshold into the subway car. 

“Doors closing,” the smooth female voice announces, and the train lurches forward, sending Seungkwan and his suitcase skittering backwards into a well-dressed man in his forties reading the _Post_.

“Ah, s-sorry,” Seungkwan murmurs, grabbing the suitcase handle and hitching an ankle around the nearest handrail. The train begins to careen smoothly into the darkness, the other passengers’ heads down as they stare into the bottomless black screens of their phones, the crinkled edges of newspapers. Another boy his age stares at his shoelaces, fingers drumming against the fluorescent blue vinyl of his seat.

Seungkwan sighs, his chest still heaving with the effort of the run. A fine layer of sweat has broken out on his hairline, more from stress than exertion, and in the silence of the cabin he begins to tune into the wary thrum of his body, the strained muscles of his calves, the sticky knots of thoughts running through his mind, curling and uncurling much like the anxious rhythm of his fingers clenching and unclenching around the suitcase handle. 

He hadn’t meant to be late. Obviously. Seungkwan was, in fact, habitually early, notorious for showing up at house parties exactly on time, spending a significant portion of his time idling outside whatever place he meant to be with his tongue poking slightly between his teeth as he pretended to look at some meaningless screen open on his phone. Yet today he’d awoken with a knot in his chest and a slight headache, and though he’d packed everything the night before, all of his best shirts and shorts and even a few ties, he couldn’t find the motivation to begin making his final preparations until 15 minutes before he was set to depart for the Rosslyn subway station. He’d never been so quick to hail a taxi in his life, even if the ride had cost him nearly $10 just to get across the Francis Scott Key Bridge from Georgetown. He should have been excited — giddy, really, considering how long he’d been looking forward to this trip. California. Irvine. Home. Every year, it was the thing he anticipated most: the hazy summer weeks when he was finally where he belonged. And to think, this summer he had twelve weeks to spend in his favorite place in the world. Twelve weeks of sun and water and wind and what he dreamed of as a grand adventure, even though the reality of it was less than picturesque. 

“You can’t afford it,” his mother had told him matter-of-factly a few months ago, finger jabbing at his bank statement. “You’re better off sub-leasing and moving home for the summer, my dear. Unless you plan on getting a job, but we know how that went last time.” Ah yes, the Georgetown Cupcakes Incident of 2017. His mother would never let him forget. What was more gloat-worthy for his mother: his utter penury or his single disastrous attempt at reversing it?

“Eomma, I know. You don’t have to keep telling me,” he’d said, aware of how ridiculous he must look pouting like this.

“It’s not like you have an internship anyway. You have no plans. Come home! Sojeong and Jinseol would love to see you, and Bookkeu, and me of course, your dear old mother — ” 

“I can always get a job at Georgetown Cupcakes again,” Seungkwan muttered. 

“If you’re going to cause another bakery fire, at least do it at your uncle’s. We don’t want to get sued again,” his mother said lightly, but the idea, ironically enough, lit a fire in his mind. His uncle Jongho’s bakery in Irvine had played host to many of his formative years; the parties with all of his uncles and aunties, scores of cousins squished into the kitchen to play with a handful of weathered wooden blocks, birthday cakes wreathed in mint-green frosting, fingers sticky with red bean paste after a day at elementary school — 

“Eomma,” Seungkwan had said that day. “You’re a genius.” After making a brilliant pun combining _cheonjae_ and _eomma_ , he got to his feet and immediately called his cousin.

Two hours later, he’d bought the ticket. May 28th, departing from Ronald Reagan Airport at 12 pm, he’d make his way to Irvine and to his summer job, where Seokmin and Chan would pick him up, hopefully with some fresh _hotteok_ or something. He can picture it now, swaying back and forth as the train breaches the surface of the earth, his surroundings shifting from darkness to the brilliant green of the passing trees: his cousins would hand him a wax-paper wrapped pancake. He’d bite down and feel the soft dough give under his teeth, followed by a hot ooze of cinnamon syrup… His mouth waters at the thought, and he remembers that he hasn’t eaten breakfast yet. His supposed rush for the train had distracted him.

The boy sitting near him looks up, his eyes meeting Seungkwan’s in a pinprick of a second, and Seungkwan realizes he’s been staring at him. Not on purpose. It had just happened as his mind began to wander west. The boy holds his gaze for a moment, and Seungkwan takes the opportunity to study his face; angular and pale, eyes drawn but, locked on his own, unafraid. There’s something almost feline about him, his eyebrows pinched in something like concentration or confusion. Suddenly embarrassed by the weight of the other boy’s gaze, Seungkwan looks down at his shoes, at his ankle hooking him to the pole. The train’s brakes screech as it pulls into the next station, and the boy gets to his feet. Seungkwan assumes he’s leaving and averts his eyes, examining the wheels of his suitcase.

“Sorry,” someone says, and when Seungkwan looks up, the boy is standing next to him, leaning effortlessly next to the pole. “Didn’t mean to look creepy earlier. You just seemed familiar.”

“Oh, yeah, I thought so too,” Seungkwan replies, the lie burning in his mouth. “Do you go to Georgetown, by chance?”

The doors begin then begin to close and the train hums to life again. The boy laughs, causing Seungkwan’s stomach to flip over on itself.

“God, no, I wish,” the boy says. “I’m not in school. I work at Chipotle.”

“Oh! Maybe that’s why you’re familiar. I go there all the time. Which one?”

“On 14th Street, about a block away from Logan Circle?” The boy almost looks bashful now, and Seungkwan notices the tips of his ears turning pink. “I don’t know, it’s a big city.”

Seungkwan thinks for a moment, tries to orient this into a mental location. He shakes his head. “I don’t get over there much. I dunno, we might have friends in common or something.” It occurs to him that a normal human being would, at this point, introduce themselves. “I’m Seungkwan, by the way.”

“Jun,” the other boy says, and offers his hand. “Where are you heading?”  
Seungkwan gestures to his suitcase. “Ronald Reagan. I’m late for my flight to California. And you?”  
“California! Whoa, that’s so much more exciting than me. I’m just heading home. I worked an overnight,” Jun says, his eyes snagging on the suitcase. He stuffs a hand in the pocket of a grubby navy hoodie, and Seungkwan notices the dark, puffy circles under his eyes, the slight tremor of the hand gripping the rail. Jun catches him looking and gives him a small smirk.

“An overnight?” Seungkwan asks, dragging his attention back to the conversation at hand. “I didn’t think they did those at Chipotle.”

“Oh, this wasn’t at Chipotle,” Jun says, but doesn’t elaborate. After a beat, he says, “California, huh? Where? I have a lot of family out there.”

“Irvine. It’s about halfway between LA and San Diego — “ He’s about to launch into his usual spiel, the one he’s given dozens of people who always badger him once he lets the C-word leave his lips.

“I know Irvine!” says Jun, brightening. “That’s where my best friend is, actually. Maybe you know him?”  
“Probably not,” Seungkwan says bashfully. “It’s a big town… City, really…”

“I mean. He’s kind of famous around there.” Jun straightens then, stumbling a bit with the motion of the train. He fumbles for his phone in his pocket, then, after a moment of scrolling through something, shows Seungkwan a Facebook profile. “Look.”

Seungkwan’s ready to tell this guy that no, he doesn’t know every Asian guy in Irvine, when he stops. His friend’s picture… he does seem familiar. Almost the same way that Jun does. “Xu Minghao,” he reads. “Huh. His face… I’ve seen it somewhere. Maybe we went to the same school or something…” But it’s been about a decade since Seungkwan has lived in Irvine, when he encountered more people than his immediate family and small remaining circle of friends (it was more of a point than a circle, if he was being honest. Hansol was really the only one left.) Where could he be from?

Jun smirks a little again. “Well, if you run into him, tell him I said hi. Honestly, I’ve been thinking of going out there myself. Maybe I’ll see you around.” The train comes to a stop then, the doors beginning to hiss as they arrive at Pentagon City Station. Jun reaches for a backpack he’d left on the blue vinyl seat, the same one he’d been sitting in when Seungkwan had rushed onto the train at Rosslyn.

“Good talking to you. Have a great trip!” he says, then, with an almost comical wink, disappears onto the platform.

In the silence that follows, Seungkwan’s thoughts restart their turbulent orbit. What on earth had that interaction just been? He can’t decide if it’s foreboding or — dare he even think it — flirty. It’s then, as he begins to sink into his own thoughts, that his gaze drifts down to his suitcase. 

To the rainbow ribbon tied around the handle.

_Oh_. 

* * *

Mingyu slides down the brick wall of the alleyway, his eyes watering from the smoke.

Oblivious, Seungcheol takes another drag of his cigarette. He waves it around as he talks, gesticulating wildly as his story continues to unspool itself.

Not that Mingyu has been listening for the past few minutes. He’d tried at first, really, he did, but Seungcheol has a tendency to prattle on without thinking much about it, and his story hadn’t been particularly engaging from the start, and Mingyu is _so tired_ he can feel the bags under his eyes beginning to sag, and the harsh midday sun is glinting off the bumpers of passing cars, and his head is so heavy —

“And then I told him, ‘no way you’ll get Dongho to cover that shift, you _know_ he has class Thursday nights’, but he tried anyway, and then got upset when Dongho couldn’t do it and blamed _me_ for scheduling him like _I_ knew his girlfriend would have an ingrown toenail surgery that day.” Seungcheol scoffs, waving away a puff of smoke from his face. “Whatever. I probably shouldn’t gossip, huh? Not very managerial of me.”

“I mean, technically you’re not managering right now. You’re on a break,” Mingyu points out. “But if you want me to forget, boom, it’s gone.”

Seungcheol grins. “I knew I could count on you, Gyu. My star shelf stocker.” He cuffs him over the head, and Mingyu whines in protest. 

“If you really counted on me you’d promote me to _head_ shelf stocker,” Mingyu grumbles, smoothing his hair back into place.

“You know if I did that Aron would _really_ throw a bitch fit,” Seungcheol says.

“We’d never hear the end of it.”

“Besides, you need motivation to get the fuck out of here. I’d be devastated if I promoted you and thus incentivized you to stay at H Mart for the rest of your life.”

Mingyu frowns as Seungcheol blows out a thin ribbon of smoke. “But what about you? Who’ll save Choi Seungcheol, the only man brave enough to save everyone else?”

“Cheers to that, my friend,” Seungcheol says, thrusting the cigarette forward as if it were a glass. “Who _will_ save Choi Seungcheol? If only I knew.”

“Seungcheol?” Wonwoo pops his head out from the storage room door, his glasses foggy from the change in humidity. “Aron needs your help. Something about a spill in aisle 14?”  
“Fuck.” Seungcheol grimaces, throwing the cigarette into the trash. “Well, at least I got 7 out of 10 minutes. See you later, Gyu.” He throws Mingyu a salute, then reluctantly follows Wonwoo back into the store.

Silence settles over the alley. Mingyu leans his head against the wall, letting his eyes flutter shut for the first time in hours. He still has six hours left to go of this shift, and it’s only been two so far; the day ahead seems impossibly long. 

One day he’ll learn not to stay up the night before an eight-hour shift. Not that that stopped him last week, or the week before that, or before that — maybe, ironically enough, he doesn’t have the capacity to be taught, he thinks. He can feel sleep tugging at him, weighing his entire body down. If he just stayed here, just like this…

_No_. He lets out a long exhale and forces his eyes back open, blinking back the assault of sun. He turns to stare out at the road, watching as cars flash past, the air shimmering with heat. Suddenly, jealousy begins to fill his chest. The people in those cars, they can go anywhere; the whole of California is open to them, the whole of the country, anywhere they want to go. They’re not stuck in H Mart hauling boxes of frozen beef or _gochujang_ or strange, fuzzy fruits. It’s a beautiful day in late May and the world is screaming for Mingyu to join it, and despite his fatigue, he’s aching to run out of the alley and hop on his bike, careen down the wide streets and go somewhere, _anywhere_ —

“Gyu?” Wonwoo appears at the back door again, blinking sheepishly behind his glasses. “Hi. Sorry. Aron, um, wants you to come back in. We just got a gigantic shipment of Pepero?”

Mingyu closes his eyes again. Just for a second. Then, hauling himself to his feet and dusting off his work pants, he says, “Sorry, sorry, yeah, I’m coming…”

He blinks out at the street one last time. Tries to memorize the texture of the brick, the feel of the sun against his skin, the wind through his hair, the sound of cars zipping past. 

He joins Wonwoo and walks through the door.

* * *

California is dust and sand and sea-salt air and the susurrus of the dry wind against Seungkwan’s skin. The sun is bright in his eyes, and he squints against the glare as he stumbles past the absurdly gigantic John Wayne statue standing sentinel over the baggage claim of the Santa Ana airport. The parking lot sprawls in front of him, the impatient jockeying of Ubers and Lyfts and buses competing for the thin dribble of his attention. His suitcase lags behind him, and he has the good sense to stow the rainbow ribbon before he reunites with any of his family members.

God, the air feels good. It’s dry, nothing like the thick soup of Washington D.C. on the cusp of full-blown summer. Here, the atmosphere is subdued, almost like it’s holding its breath. Being back here is like being _alive_ again. He hadn’t realized how cooped up, how disconnected he’s been from everything, until he stands five feet from the doors of the Santa Ana airport and takes his first deep breath of California air in ten months. _Ten months_. Why had his parents ever left this place? Maybe it’s the jet lag, but the euphoria he feels is physical now, crawling through his veins to the tips of his fingers, settling on his chest like a cat. 

“Seungkwan!” He turns to the right, and about ten meters down the sidewalk are Seokmin and Chan, grinning and waving at him. He manages to resist breaking into a run, but in the last meter he throws his pride to the wind and immediately throws himself into Seokmin’s arms.

“How was your flight? How are you? Are you hungry?” Seokmin asks, his grin so wide it splits his face in two. Before he can answer, Chan is enveloping him in a hug, too. 

“Seungkwan! Welcome back!” Chan exclaims. “I’m so glad you’re here! Do you want any _hotteok_? Appa made it this morning!” He thrusts a wax paper bag at him, and just as in Seungkwan’s vision, it’s a perfectly-browned pancake, just crispy enough to contrast with the hot flood of cinnamon buried in the middle. Seungkwan grins, his mouth too full to respond to any of his cousin’s questions as they make their way to the car.

When he finally finishes the pancake a few minutes later, he says, “You two are the best, you know that? I know I say this every year, but we never should have moved.”

“That’s what I say, too!” Chan says. 

Seokmin stops at a sleek black car Seungkwan recognizes but can’t quite name. He’s still grinning, and if it were possible, his smile has gotten even larger. 

“Kwannie, you haven’t been here since last summer, right?” he asks, the anticipation in his voice palpable. 

“No…?” Seungkwan frowns, looking at Chan for clarification. His other cousin merely shrugs, sliding his hands into his pockets. 

“Well. Appa got a new car.” 

Seungkwan begins to understand.

“It’s the most Southern California thing he’s ever done,” Chan says. “Since he got it entirely to use the carpool lane whenever he wants.”

Seokmin takes his phone from his pocket, pokes at the screen for a moment, and the trunk pops open. He insists on hauling Seungkwan’s things to the back, then, once he returns, he gestures to the passenger seat. 

“Only the best of seats for my dearest of cousins,” he says.

Seungkwan scoffs as he reaches for the door handle. “You’re sure making a big deal out of — sweet mother of god, y’all can afford a _Tesla_?!” He slides inside to find the car already chilled, the dashboard a cool sweep of faux marbled wood entirely absent of gauges. A single large screen the size of a tablet takes up the center of the console, where a blinking map asks where they wish to go. 

Chan slides into the backseat as Seokmin takes the driver’s seat, both of them watching as Seungkwan runs his fingers over the interior. He’s not normally impressed by cars, but good _god_ , this is nice. And he goes to _Georgetown_ , where the majority of his friends come from old money. The bulk of them, especially Bin, went for the vintage or flashy cars, the kind that you can’t help but notice whenever you see them. This, though, this is something else entirely.

“This is amazing,” he breathes, and Seokmin turns to him, laughing, as he hits _Home_ on the screen and puts the car into drive. “I can’t believe Uncle Jongho — “

“Neither can we,” Seokmin says dryly, pulling casting a glance over his shoulder at an approaching Explorer. “We came home one day and there it was in the driveway.”

“He’d been on the waiting list for _years_ and never told us. Any of us! Eomma was _furious_ ,” Chan adds. He leans forward, his elbow jostling against Seungkwan’s on the center column as he reaches to turn on the radio. “Sorry,” he says. He thumbs through a seemingly enlist list of stations and eventually lands on one called Martini Lounge.

Seokmin scowls at him, pushing his brother back. “Chan, we’ve talked about this. I _hate_ Martini Lounge. It makes me feel eight thousand years old.”

“But we don’t know how _Seungkwan_ feels about it,” Chan says, lips curled in a pout.

“I can’t believe Uncle Jongho lets you drive this thing. I would think he’d keep it under a tarp and never let it leave the garage,” Seungkwan says. “Or, you know, at least not you, of all people, touch it.” He laughs a little when Seokmin puffs out his cheeks in fake anger. 

“First of all, the Krispy Kreme incident was _seven years ago_ , when I was _fifteen_ , and second of all, well, someone has to get some use of it, right? He’s at the bakery all day. What’s he going to use it for besides going to H Mart to pick up more red bean paste?” Seokmin huffs. 

“We always end up doing that for him anyway,” says Chan, rolling his eyes.

They’re passing into town now, the sunlight dazzling as it comes through the windshield. Palm trees line both sides of the streets, the sky cloudless and a shade of blue that bleeds into gray. Seungkwan wants to stick his head out the window like a dog and bask in it, all of it, the familiar streets and familiar air and the feeling of having his best friends beside him. Instead, he sits in the passenger seat listening to faux-jazz and to Chan and Seokmin arguing about the best flavor of _hotteok._ Seokmin comes to a sliding stop at the traffic light, then turns to Seungkwan and smiles.

“So. What do you want to do? The day is yours for the taking!” He spreads his arms wide, indicating the whole town around him. “We have great gas mileage and about four hours before Appa expects us back for dinner!”

“And about thirty minutes before I fall asleep, probably for the next full day,” Seungkwan replies. “I don’t know, maybe we could go to the beach or something? It’s not far, right?” 

Seokmin and Chan exchange an unreadable look.

“Hey, you said anything!” Seungkwan protests.

“Let the record show I said no such thing, at least not verbatim,” says Seokmin, releasing his hands from the wheel to let the car pilot itself. When Seungkwan stares at him, stupefied, he just grins. “The beach… it’s a good idea! Really!”

“You had a strange look on your face,” Seungkwan says. Then, to Chan, “What is it?”

Chan shrugs. “Nothing. The beach sounds nice. Seokmin’s just shy.” 

“ _Seokmin_? Shy? I’ll believe it when I see it,” he scoffs. 

Seokmin’s ears are turning pink now, his jaw tightening as he takes control of the Tesla to switch lanes. Chan laughs a little, eyebrows raised, and mouths the words _a girl_. A bit embarrassed himself ( _ha, yes, a girl, most people do like them, Seungkwan, you idiot_ ), Seungkwan shifts his gaze away, to the narrowing streets as suburbia begins to close in on them in earnest. They’re getting close to Uncle Jongho’s now; the houses grow kitschier, more cookie-cutter-planned-development. They pass an In-n-Out and his mouth begins to water. After the encounter with Jun on the subway, he’d lost his appetite, forcing himself to shove down a greasy egg sandwich at the Dallas airport around three hours ago. 

“Oh… In-n-Out,” he says, tracing the shape of it with his finger.

“There’ll be plenty of time for that, dearest cousin,” Seokmin says. “You will feast upon double-doubles like a _king_.”

A few minutes later, they pull into the driveway and disembark from the Tesla. As they exit, Seokmin pats it on the hood and says, “Another job well done, Anime.”

“Is your car named Anime?” Seungkwan asks, incredulous.

“No, it’s Anna… May. Two words.” Seokmin holds up two fingers to demonstrate his point, then waves at Chan to go get the suitcase from the back. “Who do you think I am, Kwannie?”

Seungkwan rolls his eyes at this but lets it go.

“Anyway! We’re here!” Seokmin says, gesturing to the house. “Let’s go! I know Eomma will want to see you.” They walk up the gravel drive, Chan struggling behind them with Seungkwan’s suitcase. Seungkwan takes it from his younger cousin after about thirty seconds of this, and Chan smiles gratefully.

“Eomma!” Seokmin calls into the foyer. He asks her in Korean where she is, and she answers in English: “Living room! Come, come!” They walk through a handful of elegantly-decorated rooms decorated with various travel mementos. Seungkwan’s eye snags on an infamous picture of Seokmin and Chan as kids on vacation in Korea; the two of them stand by the Han River wearing nothing but swim trunks and oversized floaties, both of them smiling through the gaps in their teeth. He smiles, reaching out to touch it as they walk by. Somewhere on this wall, in the barely-used dining room, is a picture of the three of them at Dana Point pretending to be pirates. Something in his stomach stirs at the memory. _Or maybe_ , he thinks dryly, _it’s the hunger_.

“Seungkwan! So tall!” His Aunt Jihyeon gets up from her place on the couch and wraps him in a tight hug. “We’re so happy to see you!”

“Thank you so much for having me, Aunt Jihyeon. My poor wallet appreciates it,” Seungkwan says, beaming. They all sit on the couch and chat for a little while as the 2pm news plays in the background. His aunt asks him about his studies (“And what will you do with a psychology degree, dear?” “I’m not sure,” he says sheepishly), his life at Georgetown (“Any girlfriends?” “No, not yet,” he admits, thinking of Jun and the rainbow ribbon), what he wants to do this summer (“Being with you all here is enough”), then finally relents at 2:30, when her watch gives off a faint chime.

“Oh, look at me, sitting here talking like I’m not gainfully employed. I have a late night call with London — Seungkwan, dear, make yourself at home, ok? Don’t let these two push you around.” She gets up from the couch, throwing a playful smirk at Seokmin and Chan, who protest loudly at her accusation.

“I’ll sue you for slander one day, Eomma,” Seokmin calls up the stairs as Aunt Jihyeon disappears into her office. He sighs, then, turning to Seungkwan, “So. In-n-Out?”

“You’ve never said anything nicer to me in my life.”

“Seokmin! Before I forget, Appa wants you to stop at H Mart for him. Can you get some sweet rice flour? The biggest bag they have,” Aunt Jihyeon calls from what Seungkwan can only assume is the top of the staircase.

Chan rolls his eyes, shooting a pointed look at his brother. Seokmin nods in agreement, but yells back, “Sure thing, Eomma! We’ll show Seungkwan what he’s in for.”

“We’ll get double-doubles before _and_ after,” Seokmin says to him. “Promise.”

Seungkwan snickers. “So quadruples, then?” 

“Yes, exactly. I knew you’d catch on quick.” 

* * *

Mingyu drops his fourth case of strawberry milk onto his feet by three that afternoon. 

He’s been here for four hours now, about halfway through his shift. He stopped being able to focus about an hour ago, and only disaster has followed since then. It doesn’t help that he’s stuck in the dairy fridge, the tips of his fingers numb from cold (the gloves are around here somewhere, but he can’t be assed to look for them), his teeth chattering so violently his vision shakes. Seungcheol hasn’t visited him for a while now, and he can hear an increase in the chatter of customers — it must be the mid-afternoon rush. 

_Where in the world is Wonwoo?_

The other shelf stocker shouldn’t have been away this long. It’s not like the volume of work to do in the packaged snacks aisle goes up with the number of customers.

Mingyu sits on the strawberry milk case and watches his breath puff out in front of him. His eyes are beginning to drift closed again despite the cold, but he catches himself and digs his fingernails into his palms as a distraction.

The dairy locker door squeaks open, throwing a shard of bright fluorescent light onto the floor. Wonwoo smiles apologetically as he shimmies back into the cramped room. “Sorry,” he says, though Mingyu isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for.

“What’s going on out there?” he asks.

Wonwoo bites his lip. “Nothing really. There was a big spill in the produce section, so Aron had me go clean it up. Somebody dropped a gigantic jackfruit and it just, like, shattered everywhere.”

Mingyu stares, his fatigue temporarily forgotten. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“Me neither. It was one of the big ones, too, and perfectly ripe… the floor will never not be sticky now,” Wonwoo says. He sighs and drops to the floor beside Mingyu. “You look tired.”

He forces a casual shrug. “Yeah. Aren’t we all?”

“I guess.” They lapse into silence for a moment, something Mingyu is very familiar with when he’s with Wonwoo. Then Wonwoo looks over at him, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “Are you okay, though? Like, really?”

He’s not sure what he’s about to say — maybe the truth ( _It feels like my brain is on fire and I’m about to explode_ ) or some kind of pretty lie, but he doesn’t get the chance before the freezer door opens again and Hansol slides inside.

“Gyu! You gotta get out here and check out the giant jackfruit spill! It’s _insane_ , man!” Hansol crows, stepping over pallets full of variously-flavored milks.

“That’s what Wonwoo was telling me about just now. I thought it was all cleaned up?”

Hansol shakes his head, eyes wide. “Nah, man. We’ll never be able to fully clean up from that. C’mon, Aron won’t care if you leave for a few minutes. Come clear your head.”

Mingyu gets to his feet, grateful that Hansol can sense his unease. His coworker, as dopey as he may seem upon first impression, has always been able to ferret these things out; it’s almost like a superpower. His talents are wasted on producing music — he always tells Hansol he’d make a hell of a detective. He glances at Wonwoo for approval, and the other boy nods.

“Go ahead. I’ll finish unpacking this one,” he says.

“Thanks. I owe you.”

“On the contrary.” Wonwoo eyes Mingyu with something like wariness, his eyes soft at the corners. Mingyu forces a slight smile and looks away, then follows Hansol into the bright confusion that is H Mart at 3 p.m. on a weekday. 

He’s primarily struck by how _loud_ everything is. The dairy locker absorbs most, if not at all, ambient noise, sealing away whatever poor fool happens to be inside. There’s the constant chatter of customers in Korean, in English, in Mandarin, in Japanese — if he thought he couldn’t think straight before, all this sensory input is really messing with him now. They pass by the snack aisle, then the canned vegetable aisle, all stuffed with people (for _some_ reason, god knows why; if _he_ had the afternoon off he’d spend it anywhere but here.) Hansol glances behind him to make sure Mingyu’s still following, then slows when they reach the produce.

“It was right there,” Hansol says, pointing at their overly-large jackfruit display. The fruits, beige and the size of swollen basketballs, sit under the placid fluorescent lights at a precarious distance from the lip of the cart. “I wasn’t here when it happened but…” He shakes his head. “From what Seungcheol told me, it was _bad_.”

The floor is still vaguely pink in the immediate radius of the cart, the air still a bit sweeter than normal. He’s in the process of approaching the jackfruit display, intent on examining the scene further, when someone slams into him.

“Oh god. Oh jeez, I’m so sorry, first the fruit thing and now — “ That voice sounds familiar.

Mingyu looks up. 

“Holy shit. Seungkwan?!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i know it's been.... a long time. but i have a good excuse! this thing is NOT unfinished -- i'm actually finishing it up at the moment (it's ballooned to 145k, somehow)! i've been holding off updating because i wanted to polish things up a bit more before posting a second part (and i was nervous about posting it in the first place tbh) but then uni/covid/grad school absolutely blindsided me. i have the next month off of school so here's a bit of Content*tm* while i finish things up :) 
> 
> enjoy c:

Mingyu. Kim Mingyu is here in the H Mart and he’s _hot_ and Seungkwan has just run into him _bodily_ and _physically_ after nearly destroying the store in a jackfruit-related incident.

“Oh-oh my god. Mingyu? It’s been _years_ — “ Before he knows it, Mingyu’s enveloped him in a tight hug ( _he’s so tall oh my god when did he get this_ tall _I have to look_ up _at him_!) and is muttering something about how it’s good to see him or something (not that he can hear him over his own barely-controlled parade of thoughts.)

“I can’t believe it, oh my god. How _are_ you, dude? What are you doing here?” Mingyu steps back to look at him, his eyes alight, mouth agape at the sight of Seungkwan back in Irvine.

“I — “ Oh god, he can barely think straight around him ( _ha, think straight_ ). “I’m here for the summer,” he stammers out. “With my cousins. I-I’m home from college for a bit.”

“No kidding?” Mingyu puts his hands on his hips, his pointy canine teeth peeking out from his lips. _Seungkwan don’t look at his lips like that. No, not his chest either, no, certainly not there Jesus can you just act normal for once!_ “Where do you go to college? Where do you even live now?”

“Georgetown! I go to Georgetown. So I live in DC most of the time,” Seungkwan says, very much aware of how much he’s fidgeting now. He can’t even meet Mingyu’s eyes; they’re too wide and too genuine and, like the rest of him, too _perfect_. Has Mingyu always been this hot? No, he couldn’t have been, he’s been seeing his pictures on Instagram for ages now but he didn’t look this _tall_ — or this _built_ —

He then remembers how social interactions work and quickly adds, “What about you, oh my god, what have you been up to?”

Mingyu spreads his hands out to indicate the entirety of the H Mart. “Nothing exciting, really. Still, uh, living here. Working at H Mart.” A wry chuckle, a hand run through his hair. _Oh his hair looks so shiny I want to run my fingers through it too._ It’s auburn, he notices, an almost golden-reddish brown that catches the fluorescent light in an undeniably beautiful way. Maybe it’s the infatuation goggles. Or maybe it’s just his hair. Mingyu starts talking again, and Seungkwan’s shocked back into awareness that he occupies a human body, one that is dressed in glorified pajamas with his hair askew from his sleeping mask on the plane. “But, uh, yeah. Nothing as exciting as Washington, DC.”

“It’s really not _that_ exciting. I’d trade it all to be back here, honestly,” Seungkwan says, and he can feel himself blushing, like he’s directing this latter statement at Kim Mingyu himself and not the entirety of the best of the fifty United States.

“Kwannie! There you are!” Seokmin rushes up to him, Chan trailing behind, their cart full of gigantic bags of sweet rice flour. His older cousin gives him a curious look, sensing that something is amiss, and then his eyes land on Mingyu. “Oh! Hi! I see you two found each other.”

Is it just his imagination, or does Mingyu blush a little? It could be a reflection of the remaining jackfruit juice. Maybe. Possibly.

Mingyu says, “Yeah, I can’t believe it. I literally haven’t seen Seungkwan in years — wild, huh? And I see you guys, like, constantly.” He eyes the bags of rice flour, a slow smirk beginning to unfurl. Seungkwan wonders what he could possibly say to make him grin again.

“We are frequent customers, after all,” Seokmin says, to which Chan adds, “Against our will.” They both look at Seungkwan again, then down at the floor where the remains of the jackfruit linger. Silence begins to percolate through the four of them, and in that moment Seungkwan forgets the entirety of the English and the Korean language.

“I, uh,” he says, before he can think of what words will follow, “Do you still see Hansol?” Hansol is good. Hansol is a safe topic. The three of them had only been best friends since they could walk, anyway.

“Of course! He’s right — oh.” Mingyu throws a glance behind him at the bagged salad section. “That’s weird. I didn’t even notice he’d gone anywhere. But he works here! He’s a produce specialist. We hang out, like, all the time.”

“Oh wow! I had no idea.” Why hadn’t Hansol said anything about hanging out with Mingyu? At least, not in detail. Had he? Seungkwan tries to scour his memories of every word he’s exchanged with Hansol since 2012 but comes up empty.

There’s another beat and Seungkwan can feel his cousins’ unease beside him ( _Why? They’ve known Mingyu as long as I have_ ). Then, his voice almost hesitant, Mingyu asks, “You’re here all summer, then?”

“Yeah, until, like, mid-August, I think,” Seungkwan says.

“We should definitely hang out. You, me, and Hansol, I mean. It’ll be just like Sunday school.” He laughs a little. “Not that anybody wants to relive that, but — you know. It’ll be fun!”  
“No, no, I get what you’re saying! I agree, we definitely need to catch up.”

Feeling a bit too much like a Facebook comment, Seungkwan turns to Seokmin. “Do we, um, have everything?” he asks.

Seokmin nods. “Chan’s gone off to look for candy, but we have the sweet rice flour. And I’m sure we’ll be back in, like, two days anyway.”

_I can definitely get used to that_.

“I’ll have Hansol give you my number,” Mingyu says, and Seungkwan hopes his face isn’t as red as he feels. “We’ll get together some time!”

“Sounds good!” Seungkwan says, then, with a final, choked-out “See you around!” he follows Seokmin out of the produce section and back towards the colorful candy aisle.

“You’re so awkward,” Seokmin says, laughing, as soon as they’re out of earshot. “What happened to you this past year? Chan and I count on you to get us through small talk hell. Were we mistaken?”

“No, no, I —“ _Please don’t come out in the H Mart, Seungkwan._ “I just haven’t seen Mingyu in a while, is all. He just startled me. Well, I startled him, really, seeing as I ran into him to prevent anyone from seeing my shameful fruit mess.”

Seokmin snorts at that. “The jackfruit mess. We’ll be telling our grandchildren about the jackfruit incident, Kwannie. I hope you know that.”  
“How could I forget.” They’ve reached Chan now. He’s rummaging through a bin full of sour gummy worms, brows furrowed, as a little boy behinds him cranes his neck to try and look at the label.

“Channie! C’mon, let’s go,” Seokmin says, tugging at his brother’s sleeve. Chan reemerges with a handful of gummy worms glistening in his palm and an unabashed toothy grin. “Must I babysit you? Are you not 20 years old now?” Seokmin asks with a huff, grabbing a wax paper bag.

Through a mouthful of gummy worms, Chan says, “I’ll have you know that I am perfectly capable of harvesting my own worms.”

Seokmin rolls his eyes and grabs Chan’s elbow, half-dragging him to the registers as Chan continues to prattle on about his newfound independence as a young adult (“I’m about to go into my second year of _college_ , Seokmin —“). Seungkwan tries to stay in the moment, the way he knows he’s supposed to as his therapist keeps telling him, but finds his mind continually drifting back to Mingyu, which of course it does. This is how it always is with him: he finds something beautiful and returns to it like a bee to a flower until it doesn’t bring joy anymore. Yet he can’t help but smile a little to himself when he thinks about how Mingyu’d _wanted_ to hang out him, had specifically _asked_ him to. Sure, they’d been friends since before they could remember, but, like, you know… it’d been a while! They were adults now! He didn’t have to pretend to like Seungkwan if he didn’t want to.

_Maybe it’s because he’s an H Mart employee and your cousins are singlehandedly (well, doublehandedly… quadruplehandedly?) keeping the store afloat. That could be it too._ But that probably isn’t it. That’s his inferiority complex talking and he knows it.

Seungkwan continues this internal struggle as his cousins meander to the front of the line and pay an absurd amount of money for the sweet rice flour. He lingers behind, still turning his old friend’s words over and over in his head.

It will definitely be an interesting summer.

* * *

“Hansol!” Mingyu finally spots him after his hellish shift finally ends, when he’s changing into his civilian clothes in the back room. He’s put his t-shirt on backwards, but he’s so focused on Hansol that he barely notices.

His coworker whips around, eyes wide. “Oh! Hey!” He holds a paper cone of lukewarm tap water from the water cooler, his name tag crooked on his polo.

“Where’d you go earlier?” Mingyu asks. “In the produce section? With the jackfruit?”

It takes a moment for Hansol to absorb the question, but when he does he nods to himself. “Oh yeah, that! Seungcheol called me over. There was some customer who was going batshit about, like, a coupon or something.”

“Did you know Seungkwan’s in town?”

“Yeah, he got in today, right?” He tilts his head to the side in confusion. “How’d you know?”

“He was the one who made the jackfruit mess! I ran into him — well, he ran into me, if you want to get technical. I hadn’t seen him in _years,_ ” Mingyu says.

Hansol’s eyes widen, then he laughs. “Oh my god, that’s _so_ like him. I can see it.”

Why won’t Hansol get his point? What else can he say to drive his unspoken question home? Mingyu twists his mouth into a frown as he ponders this, an expression that Hansol catches.

“You okay, dude?” he asks, brows furrowed.

Mingyu shakes himself. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just, like, out of it, I guess. I didn’t sleep much last night,” he admits.

“Oh, I feel you. That’ll mess with your head _bad_. Plus being here doesn’t help any either,” Hansol says with a nod of understanding. He claps Mingyu on the shoulder then, half-turning back to the locker to grab his backpack.

“Wait a sec, before you go,” Mingyu says, surprised to find the words coming out of his mouth. “When I ran into Seungkwan I told him we’d all hang out again. And that I’d get his number. Could you, uh — “  
Thankfully, Hansol catches what he’s trying to say. God, he owes this man a fucking Edible Arrangement or something. He’s a saint. “Yeah, yeah, for sure. I’ll make a group chat for the three of us. It’ll be dope.” Hansol turns away then and shoulders his backpack, mouth tightening as he pulls his headphones out of his pocket. “See you later, man,” he says, and departs H Mart without another word.

Mingyu lets out a breath and relaxes against the locker door. His thoughts still feel tangled beyond repair, bits of words and phrases chasing themselves into tight knots as he forces his eyes open. He’s made it through the day. All he has to do now is bike up the hill and back to the cramped apartment he shares with Minghao and Jihoon — or, well, Minghao and the empty bedroom Jihoon has failed to sublet. You’d think he could have just subletted it to Soonyoung, who’s practically living there already, but _noooooo_ , Soonyoung’s “too poor” and “only wants to live there if Jihoon is there.” There’s so many young men in Irvine who need summer housing, and yet! _And yet_! The bedroom remains empty, Minghao and Mingyu’s pockets even emptier as Jihoon parties it up in WeHo with his third cousin for the summer. _WeHo!_ Like he couldn’t commute to his summer job from here in Irvine if he really wanted to!

Mingyu grumbles to himself as he pushes his stubborn old bike up the hill to his neighborhood. The sun is just starting to color the sky a faint orange, clouds fading and fragmenting at the horizon. If he stands right here at the top of the hill and squints in the right direction, and if the air is clear enough (which it might be considering how nice the day seemed, not that’d he know for sure), he can make out the ocean. Mingyu pushes out the kickstand and blocks the sun with his hand, sticking his tongue out between his teeth as he searches for it. _There_. A faint glimmer of water on the horizon — not far, ten miles maybe. On a good day he’d make it there in half an hour. The thought of the beach somehow makes him even more tired. He closes his eyes for a moment, lets the breeze grab at his clothes as he imagines himself staring out at the waves with sand beneath his feet instead of scrubby bushes. If he lets himself, he can almost feel the sun on his skin, hear the gulls calling back and forth.

He’s stirred back to reality by the dull groan of a nearby motorcycle the next road over. When he opens his eyes, the sky has darkened somewhat, the sun dipping even closer to the horizon.

He has the day off tomorrow. Maybe he can…

Mingyu shakes himself. _Too tired. No more indulging in maybes_. He mounts the bike again, kicking the stand, and restarts the god-awful process of making his way through the thorny knots of subdivision streets until he reaches the apartment complex.

By the time he makes it to their building, the light has almost totally faded from the sky. His limbs heavy, he locks the bike up before dragging himself up the three flights of stairs to their apartment. Crickets chirp somewhere nearby, the fluorescent hum of the stairwell lights white noise as he tries to push away the fatigue pulling at him.

A light glows from their living room window. _One thing at a time_. He puts the key in the lock, turns it ninety degrees, waits for the click that means it’s unlocked. When the door gives, he blinks at the bright light as he walks inside.

Minghao sits on the couch with a book in his lap. When he sees Mingyu, he lifts a hand in greeting without a further word. Mingyu collapses into a stuffed chair opposite his roommate and lets his body melt into the fabric, relishing the relief of feeling his muscles unknot themselves and his bones go liquid.

Their apartment has grown quiet without Jihoon or his group of friends; during the year, they’d had people over almost every day, the apartment overflowing with energy and beer and strawberry-scented vape smoke (at least those people had left.) As much as he’d hated these hangers-on of his roommate’s DJ fame, at least their presence had made their apartment feel _occupied_. He loves Minghao, really he does, there’s no better roommate on earth (quiet, clean, dutiful, friendly), but the apartment is missing something without Jihoon, and if he’s being honest, his chaotic boyfriend.

“Oh, by the way,” Minghao says, as if hearing Mingyu’s thoughts ( _how embarrassing)_ , sliding a finger between the pages of his book. “Soonyoung texted. He wants to come over in a bit and grab some of his things. Is that okay?”

Mingyu nods, waving one lazy hand. “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

“He said he would compensate with beer.”

“Even better,” Mingyu mutters. He curls into himself and scrolls through his phone for a while, reading his social media feeds but not processing them. It’s like white noise for his brain, to calm the frantic rattle of his thoughts inside his skull. Some amount of time, though he couldn’t possibly tell you how much, passes before a knock echoes through the living room, along with — _what the fuck?_ — what sounds like a witch’s cackle muffled behind the door.

Minghao sighs, placing a beaded bookmark into his book. He gets the door, and Soonyoung bursts into the room, the witch’s cackle reaching a crescendo. “HELLO my good friends!” he crows. “What is _up?!_ ”

“Not much,” Minghao says. “It’s quite peaceful without Jihoon, really.”

“Sounds _boring_. Luckily for you, I’m here to liven things up.” He switches off the witch’s cackle noises without explanation and crosses the room to cuff Mingyu on the shoulder. “Gyu! My man! How’s the H Mart?”

Mingyu blinks up at Soonyoung, who, though half a head shorter than him, makes up for his lack of stature with violent red hair and an equally violent personality. “It’s… you know. It’s a grocery store. And I work there. Thirty-nine hours a week.”

“Oof.” Soonyoung sucks his teeth. “That’s rough, man.”

“Stocking shelves. I should mention that I stock shelves all day. You’d think there’s not thirty-nine hours worth of work in that, but you’d be wrong in that assumption,” says Mingyu.

Soonyoung nods in sympathy, one hand reaching over the chair to massage Mingyu’s shoulder. “Bruh, I feel that. Chipotle’s not great, either. But at least I stand still and just, like, scoop guac. And then I take it home and feast like a king.”

Minghao’s gone back to reading, which Soonyoung doesn’t fail to notice. His hands find a knot in Mingyu’s shoulder and work at it as he yells, “Hao! What’s going on with you? What are you up to these days besides, like, reading and shit?”

Minghao looks up from his book, his face blank. “Again, nothing much. I go to class. I paint in the studio. I dance. I do homework. I come home and read. I sleep. I do it again the next day.”

“You’re in class? Still?”

“I’m in class until June. And then I’ll be in class again after that, too,” he says, his voice light. “It’s not bad. I like it.”

Again, Soonyoung hits a particularly tense spot on Mingyu’s shoulder. He winces, and Soonyoung looks down at him, grinning. “Tense, huh?”

“You could say that.”

“They work you hard, Gyu?”

“I lift a lot of things. I often have to put them back down again,” Mingyu says. “It takes its toll on the body.” He closes his eyes and lets Soonyoung do his thing for a blessed moment of silence. His eyelids begin to droop, and the feeling of someone else’s hands on him relaxes him enough to lull him into something like relaxation.

But Soonyoung wouldn’t let such a thing happen. Not on his watch. Mingyu can practically _feel_ his discomfort in the silence, like a prickling electric field surrounding him. Soonyoung stops working his shoulder and says, “I ran into Eunseo the other day.”

“Oh?” Mingyu cracks open an eye.

“Yeah. Did you know she’s my aunt’s best friend’s niece?”

“Obviously Mingyu makes it his business to understand your genealogy in exhaustive detail,” Minghao says wryly, still looking down at his book. Mingyu makes a mental note to also send an Edible Arrangement to his roommate.

“Not merely my geneolowhateverthefuck, Minghao. He’d also have to know my social network and all of my family member’s friend’s social networks, too,” Soonyoung reminds him, wagging a pedantic finger. “But yeah, anyway, I ran into her. She mentioned you.”

“Well, yeah, I’d hope so,” Mingyu says, eyes falling closed again.

Soonyoung continues, “You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend. It surprised me. It _wounded_ me, Mr. Kim, that you don’t trust me with that information.”

“I mean, you never asked,” Mingyu says. “It’s not like you’ve been here that much.”

“Well you haven’t been _publicizing_ it, since I had to find out from _her_ instead of _you_. As I just mentioned if you were _paying attention_!” Soonyoung says, and Mingyu can almost _hear_ him roll his eyes.

What are the odds? Mingyu can’t muster up the energy to deal with this right now, though at least Soonyoung’s reminded him that he should probably text Eunseo before he passes out for the next twelve to fourteen hours.

“Helloooooo? Mingyu Kim? Are you going to acknowledge me with a response?” He digs an elbow into his shoulder now, and Mingyu looks up at him blearily, sure he’s going to lose consciousness any moment.

“Yes, I heard you. Yes, Eunseo is my girlfriend. We’ve been going out for a bit and I like her a lot. Is there anything else you need to know?” he asks. On the other side of the living room, Minghao flips a page. Pshh. As if he’s not eating up every second of this awful interaction.

Soonyoung considers this for a moment. “That’ll do for now. _I guess_. But I wanted to get your side of the story first, since she’s…” He lets the rest of his sentence dangle, unsaid. “You know. It just struck me as strange, is all.”

Mingyu really, _really_ can’t be bothered to engage with this nonsense when he’s been awake for nearly forty hours. “Listen, can we talk about this later? I am stupid tired and if I don’t go to sleep now I may lapse into, like, uhhh, what’s that infection they got in The Last of Us?”  
“ _Cordyceps_?” Minghao offers.

“Yeah, that. I’ll, like, get that and go feral or whatever.” He forces himself to his feet, every muscle in his body screaming. “But, uh, come by more often if you want. It gets kinda quiet around here.” He waves a hand before Soonyoung can stall him a moment longer and throws a “See ya” over his shoulder before barreling into his room to commune with his bedsheets.

That night, he falls asleep with his shoes on.

* * *

Seungkwan awakes in darkness.

For a moment, his head swims, the contour of the room he finds himself in unfamiliar. A trickle of moonlight leaks in through a small window, illuminating a swath of a wooden desk, the post of a bed frame, a stack of books on a high shelf. He blinks to dispel the haze of confusion, heart pounding in his chest, only to remember where he is.

_Home_.

He relaxes back against the pillows, lets a deep exhale exit his lips. He checks his phone for the time only to see that it’s only five a.m., or his standard waking time on the East Coast. Well, it’s about what he expected for his first day.

For a moment he toys with the idea of going back to sleep, then, keenly aware of the newfound excitement coiling through his veins, decides against it. The day is young and fresh and _his_ , ripe and round and bursting with untapped potential. He is back where he belongs, back with _whom_ he belongs, and he’ll be waking up in this bed for 70 more days, 70 more awakenings in this room with its dusty Harry Potter books and floppy, worn stuffed animals Chan had become unenchanted with years and years ago.

On the other side of the wall is Seokmin’s room, the place where the two of them had holed up for years as adolescents to play World of Warcraft and Runescape to Chan’s dismay. He’d sit outside the door wailing to be let in so he could play with them, but Seokmin had always refused; it was only on Easter Sunday in 2008 when Auntie Jihyeon had threatened them with no candy if they didn’t let Chan join in. Seungkwan smiles at the thought of Chan bursting in, furious at nine years old, wearing a starched white shirt and a blue bow tie for Easter dinner. After that day, they’d let Chan play with them on the condition that he stop naming all of his characters either “Fart” or “Crap”. Chan did not respect this rule.

Seungkwan scrolls mindlessly through his phone for half an hour, unable to lull himself back into drowsiness. At some point, the sun begins to creep up over the horizon and the sky turns a faint grey, throwing shadows over the walls of his new room.

He puts his phone down and wanders to the window, pulls the blinds up for a moment to peer onto the street. The Lees live on a tidy street inhabited by mostly identical houses; red shingles, stucco exterior, lawn replaced by “local landscaping”, otherwise known as “rocks”. Nobody is out and about yet, not on a Thursday at 6 a.m., but he can hear cars beginning to whizz past on the street over. The suburb is beginning to wake up, and Irvine with it.

Seungkwan wonders if it’s weird to take a walk this time of morning. With this one thought, he can feel the gears of his brain begin to shift into overthinking mode; _will people think it’s strange if they see me walking around the neighborhood? This isn’t my neighborhood. I don’t even have a dog._ Seungkwan then recalls that Lees do have a dog, a Shih Tzu named Wooju, and immediately grimaces at the thought of trying to walk her through the unfamiliar streets. _They probably have a routine for Wooju anyway and it’d be weird for me to disrupt it and if I get lost it’d just be embarrassing and if they wake up to find me gone_ —

Okay. So no walking then.

_Not that they’d care. I’m their guest and they’re my family and they wouldn’t_ —

He forces himself to step away from the window, back to his phone. He doesn’t have to do anything too adventurous today anyway — he has ten whole weeks to get comfortable. It’s fine! He’s fine.

That’s how he spends the next hour or so, vacillating between his phone and his laptop and watching the sun rise over Irvine. He strains his ears for any signs of life coming from Seokmin’s or Chan’s room but knows better than to expect any activity before ten a.m. The Lees are like that, really, only emerging bleary-eyed at 10:30 on the weekends, Uncle Jongho frying up _hotteok_ in the skillet without his glasses on as Seokmin and Chan stumble to the couch to fall back asleep until breakfast is ready. Seungkwan’s never had that, really; his mom had made him and his sisters breakfast with the tacit understanding that they would all be up and dressed by 8:30 so they could get to the church down the street by 9. If one of the siblings failed to show up at the table, she’d knock on the door with a fury to rival Old Testament God Themself.

How were his _eomma_ and Uncle Jongho even related? Where his _eomma_ was all strict timetables and rigid pragmatism, Uncle Jongho was, well, not _lackadaisical_ but certainly far more relaxed — placid, even, sometimes even mischievous if he was in the right mood. That particular trait had manifested itself tenfold in Seokmin and Chan; maybe it was the California in them that made them so laid back and easily-distracted, not harried nor stressed, not like Seungkwan’s family. There was probably far more to it than that (there almost always was when it came to their family), but he’d always had a notion that the Lees and the Boos differed on some fundamental and abstract plane he couldn’t quite identify.

Or maybe he’s just a sleep-deprived psychology major without any homework to do for once.

_Oh!_ That was it! Even though California was just waking up, he realized that it was what could almost be considered a reasonable hour on the East Coast. He could check in with his roommates! Or something. Maybe. Bin should be awake by now at least; he’s interning with his father’s law firm for the summer, though he chose not to go into the office until noon for “personal reasons” (those personal reasons being mostly “sleeping in” and “working out”). Still, it’s worth a shot.

He plops himself into the bench seat at the window, biting his lip as he waits ( _hopes_ ) for Bin to pick up. The world doesn’t feel quite real yet, not when he’s been awake in this room for so long now without interacting with the outside world.

After an excruciating minute, Bin answers, his voice bleary: “‘lo? Seungkwan?”

“Hi!” Seungkwan chirps. “Good morning!”

“Hi. How’s, uh —“ Bin yawns, and a stab of guilt twists Seungkwan’s stomach. He’s woken him up, he just knows it. “How’s California? Isn’t it, like, six a.m. there or something?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t get back to sleep.” He pulls his knees to his chest and rests his chin on top. “I dunno. Just, uh, missed you guys, I guess. Sorry I woke you, by the way.” If it were anybody but Bin he’d worry he was being too sentimental. It’s been a _day_ , after all, and he’s been looking forward to this for weeks — no, months. Any of the others would’ve ribbed him for it a little, called him soft, but Bin just sighs on the other end, and Seungkwan imagines him running his fingers through his bleached-blonde hair.

“No, no, don’t worry about it. I should’ve been up a while ago anyway. But, uh, yeah, we miss you too, even if it’s only been a day. The dynamic’s, like, different without you. It’s just, like, quieter. Minhyuk even said so last night,” he says.

“Wow, Minhyuk making an observation?” Seungkwan asks. “That’s unlike him.”

“See? The dynamic’s shifted already.” Bin laughs, and when he speaks again his voice is softer. “But yeah, I hope things are going okay out there. So far.”

“They have been! It’s good to see my cousins again.” He listens for any movement on the other wall again, then, hearing none, lowers his voice to a whisper. Just to be safe. “Though. I ran into somebody yesterday.”

“Oh? Do tell,” Bin whispers back, his voice a delicate lilt. If they were talking in person, he’d lean forward, elbows on his knees, eyes alight at the prospect of sharing secrets.

Seungkwan toys with a loose thread on the ankle of his pajama pants for a moment, then, trying to keep his tone light, says, “I ran into an old friend at the grocery store. He’s… well. He’s gotten _hot_.”

“Okay, how hot are we talking?”

He considers this for a moment. “Very. Like, Social Psych Guy times ten.” Social Psych Guy, though he had the allure of intellectualism on his side (and also happened to be the star student of an eight a.m., 300-person lecture), simply did not measure up to Mingyu Kim.

Bin lets out a low whistle. “Damn, okay. This dude must be crazy hot then.”

“You could say that. He’s, like, super tall, and built… I looked so stupid in front of him, Bin, I swear. You would’ve made fun of me for _hours_. But he did ask for my phone number.”

“You have his phone number? Have you texted him?” Bin asks, breathless now.

“Well. I don’t have his phone number. He said he’d get it from Hansol — he was our mutual friend way back then.” He stops, chews his lip. “Plus, like, I’m pretty sure he’s straight.”

“You don’t know that though.”  
“Come on, Bin. You know as well as I do that there’s, like, a _vibe_.” Mingyu definitely did not put off said vibe. His aura practically _screamed_ heterosexual, a vibe that, tragically, Seungkwan knew all too well.

“Well, duh, of course there’s a _vibe_. But, like, it’s not exclusive to queer dudes, y’know? Or, uh, you know, not every queer dude has it. You never know. You know?” He yawns on the other end, and Seungkwan can see him in all his sleepy glory, hair sticking up in all directions, eyes half-closed in what could generously be described as concentration or a diffuse kind of focus. “I dunno. I’m not there to judge every single romantic interest for you, so you’ll have to just do me proud, alright?”

Seungkwan smiles a little at this. All those boys in Georgetown, the ones he’d whisper about with his friend behind cupped hands, with covert stares that likely were not covert at all; nights of hazy drunkenness as they debated endlessly who was gay and who wasn’t and who they’d find on Grindr, nights spend gossiping if the cute guy in social psych, or in the library, or in the cupcake shop, was secretly a Republican, if his striped shirts divined anything about his personality or his swoop of dyed red hair or the perpetual furrow in his brow. Bin could take these crumbs of information and weave a narrative from them, one that, for all Seungkwan knew, he divined from the air. And yet, when he told these stories, they became spellbinding; Social Psych Guy was a disgraced pastor’s son from Wyoming with a dark secret he’d sworn not to tell anyone, Cupcake Store Guy came to Georgetown as a Belarusian spy who had a change of heart upon seeing Seungkwan and deciding to make America his home. Minhyuk and Sanha had sat, rapt, during these sessions, with Sanha throwing in wry comments every now and then as Seungkwan and Minhyuk laughed and laughed, stomachs full of cheap beer and even cheaper pizza.

As happy as he is to be here, Seungkwan knows this summer will not be like that. He is not out. Any similar activity with his cousins, or with Hansol or, God forbid, even Mingyu, would be shrouded in lies.

“I’ll try my best,” Seungkwan says now. “But it won’t be the same.”

“Of course not. But that’s the point. Otherwise you wouldn’t miss me,” Bin teases. “You need _some_ reason to come back to the East Coast. I can’t pay rent with only Minhyuk and Sanha, you know that.”

“I do. Thanks for talking to me, Bin. I’ll make sure I call you often, okay?” He bids him goodbye, wishes him luck on his internship today, then sinks against the bay window with a sigh.

The sun warms the back of his shirt, heat dancing across his skin.

For the first time in years, he lets himself imagine, just for a moment, what it would be like to be completely himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again for your patience !!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!!! thank you for tuning in :) good news: this puppy is all done as of last night at a whooping 158k. i wish i were kidding. to celebrate i've added a bit of a longer (albeit somewhat uneventful) chapter!! and since this thing is actually finished, i should be able to update much more frequently since i now can actually edit! anyway, hope you enjoy !!

Mingyu wakes to a string of ten text messages.

All from Eunseo.

They start out as fairly standard fare between the two of them:

> _gyu! hi! how was work?_

> _hey, hope your day went well :)_

> _call me when you get the chance, i have a weird story for you_

After that are a few instagram memes each dated twenty minutes apart, the last one coming in at half past midnight. His stomach sinks as he scrolls past them and back to the last text.

> _hi i know your probabbly asleep but um just uh call me when you seee this pleas_

That’s where the messages stop, at 4:39 a.m. He looks at the time and, with a start, realizes it’s nearly noon. He’s not only slept through all of Eunseo’s texts (he’d forgotten to text her last night, that was why, god he’s such an idiot) but most of the morning.

So much for his plan to get up at sunrise and run on the beach.

He can hear some kind of struggle taking place in the kitchen as the characteristic dull ring of their cast iron skillet ricochets through the living room. He frowns — Minghao doesn’t cook in the morning, nevertheless fool around with their more advanced cooking implements.

Mingyu pads out to the living room in his bare feet, one hand running through his scruffy bedhead, then swooping south to evaluate the facial hair situation (or lack thereof). He blinks in surprise at the sight of Soonyoung Kwon evaluating the still-smoking skillet, one hand inching perilously close to the faucet.

“Holy shit Soonyoung _no_ — “ he calls, crossing the room in what feels like a single stride. “No no no step away from the sink — “

Soonyoung looks up at him, eyes wide. “What? What are you yelling for?”

“The skillet – it can’t go near the sink or Minghao will _kill_ you. And then Jihoon will kill Minghao, and I’ll have a whole murder investigation on my hands and I can’t deal with all that.” He laughs a little, though it comes out forced.

Soonyoung sighs and lets the skillet rest on the counter. “If he ever comes back.”

“You don’t know when he’s coming back either?”

“Not really. I’ve only seen him once since he’s left, and that’s not nearly often enough.” He sighs again, this time with far more dramatic flair. “I’m sure you agree, seeing as without him I’m not here nearly enough.”

Mingyu’s phone begins to vibrate in his hand, and he curses. “Shit, sorry, gotta take this. Be right back.”

“Is it the _giiiiiiiiiirl_?” Soonyoung crows, and Mingyu doesn’t have the chance to tell him he’s right before he shuts his bedroom door behind him and lets himself fall back on the bed.

“Hi. Sorry for not responding, I’m really sorry, I — “

“Oh thank god. You’re okay,” Eunseo says on the other end. “Just wanted to make sure.”

“Yeah, I — sorry. I forgot to check in with you last night. Was very definitely not cool.”

“You don’t _need_ to check in,” she says. “I just — last night something weird happened, and I wanted to call you and make sure everything was okay, but then you never responded and my anxiety got out of control and I couldn’t sleep and it was a whole thing.”

He frowns. “Oh? What happened? Is everything okay?”

“It is now, yeah.”

“Hey. I’m sorry I wasn’t awake last night, but I’m here now, and I want to make sure you’re okay. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but…” He bites his lip. 

She sighs on the other end, sending a flurry of static through the phone. He can see her now, pulling at the ends of her bright blonde hair, tongue running over her bottom lip as she thinks about what she can reveal. He’s learned now that Eunseo, as bright and as expressive as she is, has a hesitancy about her; he knows why, and her reasons are good, but it doesn’t stop the inherent frustration of trying to read her mind. 

“I was with Seola,” she says finally. “We… someone saw us. They — they knew me.”

“They _what_?” he asks, his inquiry coming out a bit too sharp. “Who? What happened?”

She doesn’t answer for an agonizing moment, and he suddenly wishes he was there with her to watch her expression, to try and make sense of the intricate mental calculus she employs whenever Seola is involved. “Gyu, I — I don’t really want to talk about it. Not like this.”

“Do you want to meet up, then? I have the day off.”

“No, Gyu, it’s okay. It’s over now.”

“It’s not, though. I can tell,” he presses. “Eunseo. It’s okay, you’re not bothering me.”

Eunseo pauses. He’s said the words she needs to hear, he just knows it. Then she says, “It’s fine. I just wanted to make sure — everything was okay. And it is, so…”

“Why would you think it isn’t?” 

“You know how I am. I’ll see you tonight, okay? At the party,” she says, and he knows her mind is made up. He’ll just have to sit with the worry gnawing at him for the day until she sees fit to tell him what’s going on. 

“Okay,” he says, trying to sound chipper. “I’ll see you then. Be careful, okay?”

She doesn’t say anything; the line goes slack, and she’s gone. Ephemeral as always. 

* * *

Seungkwan and Seokmin and Chan are on their way to Newport Beach when he gets the first text. It’s a struggle not to react visibly, and in that moment, in the sunlit vestibule of Anna May the Tesla, Seungkwan misses Bin with the intensity of the California sun.

Chan’s changed the station to Martini Lounge again, though Seokmin tolerates it on the condition that they listen to Video Game Music on the way back. They’re talking about how underwhelming a particular saxophone solo is when Seokmin looks over to the passenger seat and sees his cousin sitting in stunned silence.

“Kwannie? Everything okay?”

> _hey it's mingyu! i got your number from hansol_

> _anyway how are you_

Mingyu hadn’t been kidding. He’d really gone and gotten his number.

“Seungkwan?”

His head whips up and he blinks a few times before remembering he’s in the car with Seokmin and Chan. “Yes! Hi! Sorry, just got some stupid message from my roommates.”“Bin, was it? I can never remember,” Seokmin says.

“Yeah! Him and Minhyuk and Sanha.”

“I remember them. We saw them that one time we visited, right?” Chan asks, and dully Seungkwan remembers the time, two years ago, that they’d come to visit Georgetown on an ill-fated family vacation to the East Coast. It had been the middle of December and they’d come bundled up to their chins in puffy jackets and scarves, the tips of their noses red with cold. He’d never heard Chan complain so much in his life; they’d sat, shivering, in the decrepit living room of his shared apartment while Bin tried to make conversation about the oncoming blizzard. Sanha hadn’t even moved in yet, being two years younger than Seungkwan and Bin. That had been before Dongmin graduated… where was Dongmin anyway? He hasn’t heard anything from him since his older roommate had moved for some cushy modeling job (bet he regretted all that wasted effort on his chemistry degree now.) 

He shakes himself. “Yeah, yeah, you met Bin and Minhyuk. Sanha moved in the year after that.” 

“It must be nice having roommates,” Chan says with a wistful sigh. 

“You already have one,” Seungkwan says, and shoots a glance at Seokmin. His cousin catches his eye and makes a face, tongue darting out between his teeth. “You have a built-in forever roommate, Channie. Be grateful!” 

“And the best roommate you’ll ever have,” Seokmin chimes in. “No other roommate will buy you gummy worms and Pepero just out of pure love.”

Chan pouts, “You don’t know that for sure. I could’ve had so many friends by now!”“You _have_ friends, Channie. You’re just upset you can’t go to more college parties,” says Seokmin, rolling his eyes. 

“Josh and Jeonghan don’t count as friends! They’re our employees!” 

“They _are_ our friends! Who also happen to be paid by our father! But they’re not paid to hang out with us… I think… though I have no definitive proof…” The Tesla beeps, asking for confirmation to switch lanes, which Seokmin does with a single flick of the turn signal. “Anyway, Seungkwan can attest that not all roommates are, like, best friends or whatever.”

Seungkwan stares at his phone, watching as Mingyu’s texts come in. 

_there’s a party tonight at my coworker’s place if u wanna come with me and hansol_

_there’ll be lots of people from like. elementary school and shit_

He sits, thumbs ready at the keyboard, unable to think of any words in either of the languages he knows. Seokmin pokes him and he starts back to attention. “Oh! Yeah, but I mean, I love my roommates, so. We’re all really close.”

“None of them do anything annoying?” Chan asks.

“Well duh, of course they do. But it’s mostly things like leaving their shoes out or being too loud playing video games or whatever.” He shrugs. “It’s not that big of a deal, really.”

Seokmin cuts him an unreadable look, but before he can decipher it, they pull into the parking lot at Newport Beach. “Aaaaaaand here we are!” he announces. “Kwannie, welcome back to the best AND the bougiest place on earth!”

Chan rolls his eyes. “It’s not _that_ bougie,” he mutters, and the irony of him saying this from the backseat of his father’s Tesla is not lost on Seungkwan.

The three of them climb out of the car and, each of them hefting a tote bag stuffed with snacks, make their way to the beach. Seungkwan nearly stops and stumbles when he’s hit with the smell of the ocean; he forgets sometimes how powerful it can be, the wall of water. In DC, the ocean is an abstraction, some entity too far away to drive to, so separate from his daily life that it barely registers as missing. It’s when he returns here, to the Pacific in particular, that its beauty strikes him, that the entire sensorial experience of the beach hits him with a wave of longing. Nothing feels like home quite like this; the afternoons chasing his cousins and his friends up and down the shore, gulls calling, sun warm against his upturned face, his _eomma_ and his auntie Jihyeon yelling at them not to wander too far, how they’d lure them closer with promises of extra candies and treats, the sky wide and endless, as infinite as the span of their entire lives before them.

Seokmin and Chan don’t know how good they have it. To come here anytime they want is a luxury Seungkwan can hardly imagine; sure, you could say the same of the Smithsonian Institution or whatever, but to him, DC will never have the same appeal as this. Maybe it’s silly, being homesick like this for a place he hasn’t lived for half his life, but right now he shelves this thought and takes in the scene before them. It’s not the idealized beach of his dreams — the shore is flooded with screeching children, running not unlike the way he had all those years ago, and sure, there’s a weird guy who reeks of weed staring him down a few feet away, but. Well. It’s home. 

“Ooh,” Chan elbows him, putting a finger to his lips. “Look at him — he’s looking for _her_.” Seungkwan raises an eyebrow, watching Seokmin as he surveys the beach, hand to his brow, lips pursed. “He’s trying to find a strategic spot. He always does this.”

“Who’s he looking for?” Seungkwan whispers. 

Chan leans closer, eyeing Seokmin to make sure he can’t hear. “There’s this girl he’s been friends with in high school. She’s in some of his classes now and the same fraternity as him, too — yeah, they’re both in a fraternity, don’t ask me what’s it’s like to be a business major. She’s a lifeguard here.”

Now that Chan’s said it, Seungkwan can see the slow and careful way Seokmin looks at the crowd amassed here. Then, having seen a lifeguard tower a couple hundred meters down the shore, Seokmin waves to them, calling, “Over here! The waves look awesome, don’t they?”

Once they make it to Seokmin’s chosen spot, he unfolds the towel they’ve brought and places a cooler at one of the corners. “Hey Chan, weigh this down for me? I’m going to go jump in.”

“Watch this,” Chan says to Seungkwan. 

Seokmin takes off his shirt in one swift movement, then, turning to them with a grin, runs towards the waves. He casts a glance back as he’s running, to a spot just above Seungkwan’s head. When Seungkwan turns around, he sees an (admittedly beautiful) girl sitting on the lifeguard’s chair, smiling a little to herself. 

“Hi Luda!” Chan calls. “How’s it going?”

Her eyes light up in recognition. “Hi! It’s going okay — “ She looks into the water, that same glimmer in her eye. “Well. Better now. How are you guys?”

“I’ll be better once you finally ask him out,” Chan says with a snort.

Luda laughs a little, her face red. “And why do you think I’d do something like that?”

“Because I’m not _stupid_?” He looks at Seungkwan, then, realizing his misstep, says, “Oh, Luda, this is Seungkwan. He’s our cousin and he’s here for the summer.”

“Nice to meet you!” Seungkwan calls, trying to squint past the sun. 

They exchange pleasantries for another few minutes, Chan not-so-subtly ribbing her for her failure to “make things official” with his brother, until Seokmin returns, seawater dribbling down his chest. Seungkwan resists the urge to roll his eyes; his cousin is anything but subtle. Is this what passes for courting for heteros?

He grins up at Luda, toweling off his hair with one hand. 

“Hey,” he says, which she returns with a shy “Hi.” Neither of them say anything to each other for an excruciating few seconds, until Chan announces loudly, “I’m going into the ocean. Dearest cousin Seungkwan, would you care to join me in those beautiful blue waves?”

“Oh yes of course, my dearest cousin Chan. I sure hope nothing happens while we’re away,” Seungkwan says at an equally detestable volume. 

“I agree! I think it would be pretty awful if we were to miss anything particularly interesting. Oh well! Into the Pacific with us!” They grin at each other and tear off towards the water, leaving the others in their wake.

* * *

Somehow, sometime around two in the afternoon, Mingyu manages to convince Minghao to go to the beach with him. 

“C’mon,” he wheedles, standing at the threshold of Minghao’s room as his roommate sits in bed reading a novel. “Hao, it’ll be good for us! Remember your clinical vitamin D deficiency? The doctor said it was the worst he’d seen in eight years! How’re you going to treat it unless you go outside?”

“By sitting next to the window and absorbing it passively,” said Minghao, turning a page with an idle flick of his finger. “You know this, Mingyu. I don’t go to the beach.”

“Think of the _aesthetics_! And the, uh…” He snaps his fingers, trying to think of things that Minghao finds enticing. “The fruit stands! The potential of reading a book at the beach!”“I have a lot of studying to do.”

“C’mon, Hao, I’ll pay your library fines if you come with me. We can take such great Instagram pictures too, I promise! I’ll take however many you want!”

Minghao lowers an eyebrow, placing his book facedown beside him. “For an hour,” he says, holding up one finger. “One hour. Hear me, Mingyu? One.”

“So you said two hours, right?” Mingyu asks, then ducks as his roommate launches a pillow at him. “I was kidding! Kidding! One hour. Sixty minutes. Sixty squared seconds, which is, uh…”

“Don’t pull a muscle or anything, Gyu — it’s 3600.”

“I could’ve gotten that on my own!”

“Sure.” Minghao gets to his feet, then, as Mingyu stares at him, shoos him away from the door. “Go gather your stuff. I’ll be ready in, like, ten minutes.” 

He busies himself grabbing towels and sunscreen and shitty discount H Mart snacks, humming to himself as he throws it all into a shitty discount H Mart tote. Even on days like this, the rare day off, he cannot totally escape his corporate prison. Some days, it’s depressing to think about how completely he’s surrounded himself, draped himself in this life; unlike Minghao, whose life changes every few months with new classes and schedules, he defines his routine wholly by H Mart. When are his opening shifts? When are his twelve-hour shifts? When does he have to cover for someone? When are they having a sale? It’s his only source of, well, any kind of time, and it’s dizzying to think that, at twenty-two, his life is already _like this_. A job. A full-time job that, if he’s not careful, will become his _career._ And as much as he loves Seungcheol, the last thing he wants two years from now, when he’s Seungcheol’s age, is to be the manager of a bunch of high school kids trying to decipher their Sunday-school Korean as they haul things onto a shelf and get stared at by old Asian ladies. 

He realizes he’s thinking about all of this as he stands in the middle of the kitchen gripping a squeeze bottle of spicy mustard. 

“The fuck?” he mutters, staring down at it. Why had he even grabbed it in the first place? He doesn’t even like spicy mustard.

“You ready?” Minghao appears at the counter, adorned with a jaunty straw hat, an expertly-fitted cut-off tank top, and cargo jorts that Mingyu’s sure are worth thousands.

“Oh! Yeah, yeah, I’m ready,” Mingyu says, placing the mustard down on the counter.

Minghao frowns at him. “What’s with the mustard?”

“Nothing. Sometimes I end up subconsciously stocking shelves when I’m bored out of my mind waiting for you to finish computing your outfit for the day,” Mingyu says, scoffing as they walk down to Minghao’s sleek BMW.

They wind through the streets of Irvine as they make their way to Newport, filling the time with idle banter about Minghao’s studio art classes and pre-professional sommelier society drama, Mingyu providing some droll anecdotes from H-Mart so he doesn’t feel like a total failure compared to his spectacularly rich and sophisticated roommate.

The more he thinks about it, the less sense their pairing makes. Minghao, whose parents were stupid rich Chinese entrepreneurs, had come to Irvine, of all places, to get his art degree and meet his parent’s friend’s very beautiful, very rich, and very single American daughter Meiqi. That kind of story wasn’t uncommon here; what was uncommon was how he’d ended up in a shitty apartment with two college dropouts, one working full-time for minimum wage at a grocery store, the other an amateur DJ who got by by siphoning off of his loaded dancer boyfriend who habitually listened to haunted house sound effects in _May_. By all logic, Minghao should have been living in a luxurious studio apartment a mile from campus, not twenty minutes across town in a glorified hostel. He’d asked Minghao once why he’d responded to a Craigslist ad, considering he had literally no motivation to do so, and he’d just shrugged and mentioned it being near one of his favorite Chinese restaurants. That had been two years ago, and now the three of them had lived in each other’s orbits for too long to question it any longer. As different as they all were, it worked somehow. They all dutifully paid their absurd third of rent each month and coexisted with a pleasant kind of rhythm. Mingyu had the Netflix account, Minghao drove, and Jihoon… well. Jihoon brought the crowd.

“It’s not the same without him, is it,” Minghao sighs, pulling into a cramped parallel parking space seven blocks from the beach. Peak hours. They should’ve known. “I wish he’d warned us.”

Jihoon’s sudden departure had shaken them both. They’d woken up one morning three weeks ago to find his room bare, a text in their roommate group thread reading _heading to weho for the summer. see you_. No warning, no mention of summer plans besides a shrug and a casual “I’ll see what Beomju is up to.” They’d heard next to nothing from him since then. That was three weeks ago. 

“I mean…” Mingyu shifts in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable despite the seat cooler underneath him. “He did, kinda, you know, warn us. In his own way.”

Minghao shoots him a skeptical look. “What, by being himself?”

“You know, he was always talking about going to WeHo for a while, getting out of town… I didn’t think it’d be that sudden, but…”

“Do we even know he’s coming back?” Minghao scoffs. “Do you think he’d tell us if he wasn’t?”

Mingyu forces a shrug. “I think he would,” he says. “He’s our friend. It’d be a dick move not to, given, like, the fact that he’s renting a room in our apartment.”

“Soonyoung doesn’t know what’s going on. It sucks for us to have him gone, but to leave Soonyoung, too? I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem fair.” Minghao reaches for the keys then and shuts off the car, giving him something like a smile, if not an acknowledgment of their shared resignation. “Oh well. What can you do.” 

“Go to the beach!” Mingyu crows, throwing the BMW door open and nearly hitting a pedestrian in the process. “Oh god I’m so — Seungkwan! Holy shit!” 

Against all odds, it seems that yet again, Mingyu has run into Seungkwan in near-death circumstances. Seungkwan staggers back, eyes wide, as he takes in the scene. Seokmin and Chan stand a few feet behind him, licking ice cream cones and snickering to themselves.

“I’m so sorry. Uhhh. What a way to run into you again.”

“It does seem characteristic of us, doesn’t it,” Seungkwan sighs, his wry remark contradicted by the redness of his cheeks. “I-I’m sorry. For, um, being in your way.”

“No! I refuse to accept such an unnecessary apology.” He looks over at Seokmin and Chan and waves. “What are y’all doing here?”

“We’re at the beach,” Chan says.

“Actually, we’re on the street near the beach,” Seungkwan tells him, to which Chan doesn’t deign to respond. To Mingyu, he says, “I wanted to see Newport. First day back, really, you know. Don’t, um, have the ocean in DC, really.”

Mingyu nods. “Yeah, yeah, I get it.” He then remembers that Minghao is standing near him, watching them interact without moving a muscle. “Oh, um, Seungkwan, Chan, Seokmin, this is my roommate. I don’t know if you met him.”

“Minghao,” Minghao says, and Mingyu realizes he forgot to actually tell them his roommate’s name. “Nice to meet you.”

Seungkwan’s eyes light up with something like recognition, but if he knows Minghao, he doesn’t say anything. “Nice to meet you,” he says. “You guys live together then?”

“Yeah, we live with one of our other friends over near Tustin, almost. I study art at the university,” Minghao says, toying with his keyring. “You’re Seungkwan?”

Seungkwan nods. “Yeah, I’m here for the summer, staying with my cousins.” He nods at Seokmin and Chan, who linger a few feet away. Minghao’s car door is still open, and Mingyu closes it, belatedly, as the five of them stand there in silence. Why is this so awkward? He berates himself — _say something, say anything, be charismatic_ — and clears his throat, forcing a smile.

“I’m glad I ran into you, actually. Minghao and I are going to a party at my manager’s place tonight if you want to come. All of you,” he hastens to add, throwing what he hopes is an encouraging look at the other two. “It’ll be fun, and you can meet everyone. Or, uh, re-meet them. Re-meet? Is that a word?”

“Reunite?” Minghao suggests. 

“See?” asks Seokmin, finally taking a step forward to join their awkward half-circle.

“Mingle with?” Chan chimes in.

“Make an utter fool out of myself in front of?” Seungkwan opines.

“No! Not that last one! Seokmin’s probably right. ‘See’ is better.” He smiles a little, scratches the back of his neck. “But yeah. Hansol will be there and some of my coworkers. And, um, I don’t know, do you remember Eunseo? Or Luda?”

“Luda will be there?” Seokmin asks, hopeful. 

“Yeah, yeah, her and her group of friends. You know Yeoreum and Meiqi and all of them? From, like, elementary school, and every church gathering ever?” Mingyu looks over at Seungkwan, who nods a little. “Yeah, them, and, uh… I don’t know, I feel like I’ve named half the guest list by now. But yeah, if you want to come I’ll text you the address. It’ll be fun.”

Seungkwan casts a glance at Seokmin and Chan, who nod. “Sounds fun,” Chan says. “I’ll have to ask our Dad, but…”

“Oh, don’t worry. Everyone’s parents think they’re going to youth group,” Mingyu says.

Another beat of silence. _Jesus Christ_ , he thinks. _Tough crowd._

“Where are you all headed?” Mingyu asks. “Did you want to head back to the beach with us?”

“We were going to the donut place, actually,” says Seokmin. 

Seungkwan looks over his shoulder in the direction of the beach. “I mean, we could go back for a bit,” he says.

“We’ve been there for the past three hours, Kwannie.” 

Mingyu thinks he detects a tightness in Seokmin’s voice, a note of annoyance he can’t quite place. His stomach shifts, and he forces out a “No, no, don’t worry about it. Have fun. We’ll see you later tonight” and smiles, giving Minghao a silent look. 

The three of them make the typical ‘nice running into you’ noises and wave goodbye, promising to see them at the party. Once they’re gone, Minghao furrows his brow and whispers, “Are you okay?”

Mingyu blinks. “Yeah. ‘course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You seem… off.” 

“I’m fine. Just excited to get to the beach is all.” He opens the BMW and shoulders the tote bag with their towels. 

As they begin to walk, Minghao looks at him with suspicion. “What was up with, um…” He purses his lips, searching for his name. “Seokmin, was it? He had kind of a weird attitude.”

He shrugs, hoping the gesture comes across as casual. “Dunno. I didn’t really notice anything.”

“Come on, really?”

“I see Seokmin all the time. He’s cool. We haven’t had any issues,” Mingyu says, holding a hand to his forehead to block out the sun. “We’re not, like, close or anything, though.”

“If you say so. Figured I’d ask.”

When they come to the shore, they lay out the ratty old Ralph’s towel on the sand. Mingyu sits there for a moment, letting his eyes flutter half-shut like a contented cat as he lets the heat play on his skin. They’re so close to the ocean in Irvine — _so close_! — but he so rarely gets to come. 

Minghao settles beside him, thumbing open the novel he’s been reading, and Mingyu lets his consciousness go in and out with the waves.

* * *

Seungkwan has attended a total of eight house parties in his twenty-one years of life. 

Really, it sounded pathetic in those terms, but that was the cold, hard truth. There’d been two in Virginia, at a friend of a friend’s house in Falls Church (those had occurred in the dead of winter, and when he thinks back, he can still feel the cold pinching through his flannel and leeching through the label of cheap Bud Lite.) Then, at Georgetown, he’d gone to at least one a semester at Bin’s friend’s Myungjun’s penthouse across the bridge in Rosslyn. He even remembered, vaguely, making out with someone in a drunken stupor (it hadn’t been _good_ , and Seungkwan had made some flimsy excuse to get away.) He can’t really say he _enjoyed_ these affairs, mostly because you needed alcohol to enjoy them to any measurable degree, and if he was going to drink, he’d rather it not be near throngs of strangers who’d egg him on to sing a dozen rounds of karaoke on a twenty-year old machine filled entirely with Shinhwa songs, even when everyone inevitably told him what a _stunning voice_ he has. 

So in the hours leading up to the “youth group social” he and his cousins are attending at Seungcheol Choi’s house, he spends his time standing in front of the mirror and frowning at every possible outfit combination he can make. He plays with the ends of his hair, lamenting its bowl shape despite his efforts to style it, squinting at it in the light to see if the slight blue tint is visible (it’s not.) He stares at his face, squishing his cheeks and then sucking them in, pushing them up and letting them fall. He leaves the door to his room open, and he can hear Seokmin and Chan laughing in the hall. Around 7, he meets with his cousins in the living room, still pushing at his bangs to keep them out of his eyes.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” Chan asks, blinking at him in confusion.

“What? What’s wrong with it?” Seungkwan adjusts his checkered blazer, suddenly second-guessing the formality of it even if it’s paired with a white t-shirt and jeans. 

Chan shrugs. “It’s fine. Just a little formal, I think.” His cousins are both wearing t-shirts and jeans with Birkenstocks, looks that absolutely would _not_ pass the Bin Inspection. He realizes he’s still dressing to the standards of those stuffy, antiquarian Georgetown parties where well-off students would serve aged whiskeys and scotches, not the shitty college town parties probably characteristic of Irvine. He can feel his face heat up as he shrugs off the blazer, the pulse of cold air on his arms startling.

“You look fine, Kwannie. Don’t stress,” Seokmin says, squeezing his shoulder. “If you want, a collared shirt is fine, too.” He sees the look on his face and adds, “California’s weird. You get it.”

He nods, fingers twisting around a loose thread on his jeans. “No, definitely. Georgetown’s its own culture entirely. East Coast, you know!” He chokes out a forced laugh, then murmurs something about being back down in a moment. He hears Auntie Jihyeon call to Seokmin, asking what time they’ll be home, but he doesn’t catch Seokmin’s reply as he hurries up the stairs. Once he reaches his room, he closes the door behind him and strips off the blazer, throwing it into a bundle onto the floor. He looks at the bundle for a second, trying not to think about how it’s the same blazer he wore to his social psychology class in the spring, the same place he’d seen _that guy_ , and how maybe he was wearing it now subconsciously to try and get the attention of a different guy, even if said guy was incredibly straight and his childhood best friend and a completely inappropriate crush. He wishes then that he could have Bin here, sitting in this room on the corner of his bed, to talk him down and hand him some perfect clothing item, give him a pep talk, and send him on his way.

He feels guilty now looking at the bundle of blazer and picks it up, dusting it off and arranging it on a hanger in the closet. He squints at the suitcase, then, after a moment, pulls out a pink sweater he usually reserves for drafty lecture halls. It’s still casual, but it’s friendly, too, and it’s not only a white t-shirt. He pulls it over his head, then fluffs his bangs back into place so he doesn’t look _too_ much like a kindergartener going on his first playdate.

“I’m a legal adult,” he says to his reflection. “I _am._ I am twenty-one years old.” 

He sighs then, dusting off the sweater one last time before heading back down the stairs. I _t’s just a party! Nothing to worry about! It’ll be fun! I’ll have a drink or two to unwind and then I’ll be able to catch up with everyone and I’ll be confused about why I was ever anxious in the first place._

“You ready?” Seokmin asks, now that they’ve reunited. He grins, twirling the car keys around one finger (not the Tesla — that was off-limits for the night). 

“Yeah, I’m good. Let’s get it!” he says, allowing himself a smile. 

“Youth group time!” Chan whoops.

Auntie Jihyeon reappears to see them off, warning them not to do anything too silly and to be back by midnight _at the latest_. 

“You have an early day tomorrow,” she warns. “You’re lucky your father’s letting you go out at all.” She reminds them again that they’re expected at the bakery by 6:30 to help with the Saturday breakfast rush, then, with one final stern look, disappears back into the kitchen.

Seokmin sighs and ushers them to the Acura, the Lee vehicle predating the mythical Tesla. Unfortunately, after only three rides in Anna May, Seungkwan can tell the difference; the seats aren’t made of buttery leather, the engine makes a twitching kind of noise that doesn’t abate, and the radio stations aren’t _nearly_ as good as Martini Lounge, or, for that matter, Halloween Sound Effects. Still, Chan passes up his phone to plug into the aux as they wind their way up into the hills and towards Seungcheol’s house.

“Have you met Seungcheol before?” Seungkwan asks. He doesn’t recall ever meeting him, per se, but he’s heard the name in passing gossip from Hansol. Of course, everyone knew everything about everybody around here, but he’s been out of the loop for long enough that most of it goes over his head without a lengthy Game of Thrones-style narration.

“A few times, yeah,” Seokmin says, coming to a gentle stop at a red light. “The same way you know everyone around here, you know? Like, friend-of-a-friend style. He seems cool.”

“What about Mingyu? I mean, obviously, you’re in the same year, but…” _What’s happened in between fifth grade and now? When did he become so hot?_

Seokmin’s grip on the wheel tightens almost imperceptibly. _Almost_. “Yeah, yeah, we graduated together. We weren’t, like, friends per se, but we knew each other. Traveled in a few of the same circles.”

“He means Luda’s and Eunseo’s circle,” Chan says from the backseat, and Seokmin scowls at him. To Seungkwan, Chan says, “He’s not saying it even though it’s _obvious_ to anyone with _eyes_.”

Seungkwan doesn’t respond to this, but Seokmin continues, “Yes, I knew him through Luda and them. And Hansol too, I guess, though that’s more through you than him. We were just in different crowds most of the time in school.”

“Then he dropped out of college,” Chan adds.

“What?”

“Yeah, we were in some of the same classes for the first semester and then he dropped out.” Seokmin shrugs, flicks on the left turn signal as he tries to switch lanes. He makes the switch effortlessly, much to the surprise of Seungkwan and his Washington, DC traffic sensibilities. “He didn’t say why, no warning, nothing. He just disappeared for a while and then reappeared at H-Mart a few months later. I didn’t think to, like, ask, you know? Seems rude.”

“Aunt Jihyeon would be proud,” Seungkwan says, though it’s taking everything in him not to pry further. Why would Mingyu drop out? From what he knew of him, yes, he was a bit of a ditz, but he’d always been a decent student. Well, in elementary school, anyway, which didn’t really count. But still.

“Nah, untrue. She’d want the tea,” Chan argues. “She just tries to be nice around you because she doesn’t want you think that we’re all a bunch of whores who live for drama.”

Seungkwan snorts at that. “Yeah, like I couldn’t figure that out myself by just spending, like, five minutes with you two.” 

“Then oh boy, you’re going to love our traditional post-gathering gossip fest,” Seokmin says, pulling alongside the curb to come to a stop. He raises his eyebrows in excitement, then, wiggling his shoulders, reaches down to unbuckle Seungkwan’s seatbelt. “It’ll be fun,” he says, holding his gaze. “I promise.”

The three of them navigate in the dark to find Seungcheol’s apartment building, then, once they’ve located it, the staircase to find the third floor. Once they reach the third floor, they begin to search again for his apartment number.

“You’d think we’d be able to find a party from, like, a hundred meters away, but you’d be _wrong_!” Seokmin grumbles as they pass number 301 for the third time in five minutes. Seungkwan is adjusting the collar of his sweater again when they finally come across apartment 308, the location of which, in hindsight, should’ve been obvious due to the pulsating blue light radiating from the windows and the muffled bass shaking the window frames.

And here he’d been naïvely assuming they’d all sit around and drink beer while playing Just Dance or something. 

Seokmin knocks, no, _pounds_ on the door, and a moment later a slim boy wearing glasses appears in the doorframe, beckoning them inside. He and Seokmin bro-hug in that straight-dude-insecure kind of way, and then Seokmin’s pulling him through the door and into the apartment, Chan flanking him from the back.

The living room is small, but it’s made even smaller by the dozens of people crammed inside. The music, he can tell now, isn’t hip hop but — are those _haunted house sound effects_? Seungcheol has wreathed the walls in glowing blue Christmas lights, though they slump away at the corners. 

He turns to say something to Seokmin, but he finds that both of his cousins have already disappeared into the throng. He puffs out his cheeks, letting out a long exhale, and steels himself to journey through the mass of bodies to the fluorescent light of the kitchen, a haven, at the very least, from the more raucous parts of the party. As he passes by the other partygoers, his eye is snagged by a long beer pong table shoved into the corner, where he spies Hansol watching on with a snicker. He makes a mental note to find him and say hi later — they haven’t had the chance to talk much since he got here, not that now is a particularly good time — and continues, barreling into a some tall guy whose face he can’t even see. 

“Sorry!” Seungkwan sputters, and the guy nods at him with an amiable half-smile. 

“You’re good man, no worries.” They make vague _let’s-move-around-each-other-now_ noises, and he disappears into the crowd.

Pursing his lips, Seungkwan makes his way to the kitchen, where, of course, Seokmin and Chan are pouring themselves drinks. 

“Wasting no time, I see,” Seungkwan remarks.

Seokmin nearly drops the liter of Coke he’s pouring into a red solo cup. “Well, dear cousin, we do not come here merely to socialize and observe the social dynamics. We come here to inebriate ourselves and have a rollicking good time.” He considers the drink before him, then takes an uncritical swallow, smacking his lips. “Ah, nothing like cheap vodka and coke.”

Chan sips from his own cup, then offers it to Seungkwan. “Here, mine is slightly more refined than that.”

“What is it?”

“It’s boxed white wine, but in a solo cup.”

“That’s not in any way more refined than Seokmin’s drink.”

“It’s wine. That makes me morally superior to, like, everyone but whiskey drinkers, practically.” He offers the cup again, shaking it slightly. “C’mon. You like wine, don’t you?”

Seungkwan rolls his eyes but accepts Chan’s cupped boxed wine. To absolutely nobody’s surprise, the wine is not of the utmost quality. Still, he takes a long and heady sip, willing the alcohol to enter his veins as soon as possible and make him properly sociable.

“Any more of those Solo cups around?” he asks.

* * *

Mingyu is tense.

He loves parties — really, he really, really does — but this one… This one feels… off. Maybe it’s the lack of Jihoon or the sudden thought of Seokmin appearing and _hating him_ for some reason, now that Minghao’s brought it up… or the fact that he’s still sober at 11 p.m., surrounded by drunk idiots he normally only sees when they’re all wearing their H Mart uniforms.

He’s pondering why on earth he’s attending this event, standing in the corner of the living room and watching everyone coalesce into their own unique orbits, when Seungcheol sidles up beside him nursing a bottle of beer.

“Hey dude.” Seungcheol offers him the bottle, but Mingyu shakes his head a little. “What’s wrong? You look, uh…” He gesticulates vaguely with the beer in an approximation of a circle. “What’s the word, uh. You know. Like… off.”

“I’m okay for now. I’ll drink a little later, maybe,” Mingyu says.

“Oh?” Seungcheol frowns at him, his voice taking on a certain managerial tone. “You don’t usually not drink. Are you expecting something or whatever?”

For a moment they both watch the crowd in their tight circles, laughing and chatting amongst each other. In the opposite corner, Minghao and Meiqi are talking in Chinese, and a few meters away, Hansol and Wonwoo laugh at some shared joke likely at Seungcheol’s expense.

“Well. I guess I’m waiting for someone, yeah,” he says, eyes flitting across the room. It just doesn’t make sense. It’s getting later and later now, and still no sign — ?

Seungcheol raises a curious eyebrow and takes a long swig of his beer. “Interesting,” he says, drawing the word out into each of its distinct syllables. “Very interesting indeed. Would it be a certain Miss Eunseo Son?”

“I — “ He can feel his ears turning red. “Well — yes. I mean, she is my girlfriend. And because she is my girlfriend it would be nice of her to be here, especially since she won’t answer my texts, which, you know, is kind of worrying to me at a time like this.”

“At a time like what, exactly?”

“11:33 p.m.?”

Seungcheol suddenly guffaws in a way only Drunk Seungcheol guffaws. Nobody sober has ever found Mingyu funny, not intentionally. “You’re so funny, Mingyu. Has anyone ever told you that? Because you are. You’re, like… like a… like a big, like, puppy. And your head is just full of, like, that shit they put in build-a-bears. Like, fluff, and, uh, uh… fluff and cotton candy.”

He can’t stifle the laugh that bubbles out of him. Mingyu pulls Seungcheol close and presses his face into his manager’s neck, laughing still as Seungcheol whines and tries to pull away. He gives in and lets him go after a few seconds, but Seungcheol huffs and fixes his hair, pouting at him like he’d kept him captive for hours.

“That’s my job,” he grumbles. 

“Your job is to manage H Mart, actually,” Mingyu says, and grabs the beer from Seungcheol’s hands to take an extended sip. “And to baby me. That’s it. Those are the two jobs you have.”

Seungcheol grabs the bottle back and takes another sip of his own. “And yours is to respect me. In case you, uh — “ He burps then, inelegantly and with finesse. The patrons of the party applaud with respect when he finishes, and Seungcheol takes a sloppy bow, dumping the beer all over the floor.

“I think it’s time to stop drinking, Cheol,” Mingyu says, and he takes the empty bottle from his hands. He wraps an arm around his shoulders and steers him towards the balcony, gesturing at Wonwoo to start cleaning up the mess. “C’mon. Let’s get some air.” On the way through the kitchen, he swipes another bottle of beer from the counter. 

The party begins to hum with noise again after they slide open the balcony door. When it closes behind them, the noise cuts off entirely, leaving them with only the din of traffic for company. 

The view isn’t much — it is a shitty, cheap apartment in Irvine, after all — but Mingyu’s always liked it out here. There’s something peaceful about it, despite the utter lack of ambience. All you can see from here is the red and white streaks of cars passing by on the 5. He’s spent so many nights here squinting at the cloudy horizon, listening to Seungcheol gripe about work or Wonwoo wax poetic about the novel he’s reading or Hansol quietly trying to find a new, inventive melody to post on SoundCloud. 

They take seats in the rickety plastic chairs Seungcheol liberated from the local Walmart a year and a half ago. Seungcheol fumbles in his pocket for a cigarette, but his hands are too shaky to hold the lighter. Mingyu knows better than to argue about his smoking habit, especially at a time like this; he’ll get grumpy and defensive, which is the last thing either of them want. So instead he helps Seungcheol light the end of his cigarette, then cracks open the beer and tries not to think about how much it tastes like diet piss.

Seungcheol takes a long drag, staring off at the cars sailing below them. 

“You know,” he says, after a moment of pensive silence, “I meant what I said, Gyu.”

“About what? My head being full of Build-a-Bear fluff?” he asks, laughing. The bottle is already a quarter empty.

He shakes his head, giggling a little. “No, no, no. Though. Maybe.” He considers this prospect for a moment, then shakes his head again. “No. Not that. I meant the other day. About you getting out of here.”

“What, are you going to fire me?” Mingyu then takes another long sip, more like a shot, really. As much as he hates H Mart, the thought of getting fired gives him palpitations. It’s the only stability in his life (besides Minghao, god love him), and without it he’d — well. He’s not sure what that life would look like. Not right now, not as things are. 

“No, Gyu, I wouldn’t do that to you. Goddamn, who do you take me for?” Seungcheol adjusts himself in the chair, propping his feet up on the railing as he takes another drag, the cigarette sitting crooked between his lips. “No, I just meant… you should. You know. Leave.”

“You wound me, Seungcheol,” Mingyu says, hand to his heart. “I thought we were friends. I was your _star shelf stocker_.”

“Would you shut the fuck up and listen to me for a second?”

Mingyu stops laughing then, and the night air grows still between them.

He continues, “I’m serious. You — you want to get out of here, right? Like, I can feel it. You’re just always sitting and, like, waiting, but not in the way the rest of us are. I don’t know how to describe it, it’s just like… this vibe you give off. Like you’re never quite here.”

“I…” Mingyu bites his lip, trying to process everything Seungcheol’s saying. It doesn’t sound right, given how much of his effort he invests in projecting an aura of confidence, of buoyancy. It’s artificial — of course it is — but is he really that transparent? He’s tried to shove his thoughts and emotions down for so long, and he’d thought his continued friendships and continued life were evidence that he’d done a decent job. 

Seungcheol’s not done yet. “I don’t know, like, tell me if I’m wrong. That’s just the vibe I’m getting from you recently. Or, like, since you dropped out, honestly. You know I love you, Gyu. I do I do. I want what’s best for you. And it’s, you know, it’s hard to watch you waste away like this. You’re destined for other things, man. I just want you to be happy.” When he meets Seungcheol’s eyes, he can see that he’s crying. It’s only a few tears, but it’s enough for guilt to twist his stomach. 

“That’s what I want too,” he replies, his voice low. He thinks for a moment, then drains the last of the beer from the bottle. He’ll need to drink a few more to get as drunk as he wants to be, especially after this conversation. 

“Then you need to do something about it.” Seungcheol’s voice has an edge to it now, and if he notices he’s crying, he doesn’t do anything about it. “Seriously. I want to help you. Let me know how I can help you.”

He’s not sure how to respond, but he’s thankfully saved by the entrance of — who else? — Eunseo. She slides the door open, looking at him shyly through her hair. Without thinking, he gets up and goes to her, wraps his arms around her waist.

“Hi,” he whispers, and she gives him a tight smile. “How are you?”

Eunseo looks over at Seungcheol, who’s slumped over with the remainder of his cigarette. “I’m okay,” she says. “Better now.” 

“You sound better,” Mingyu says, hoping that saying it will make it true.

She nods, taking his hand in hers. 

“You looked like you were in the middle of something,” she says carefully, drawing herself away. Her eyes rest on Seungcheol again.

“No, no, that’s okay. I’m glad you’re here.” He nods at his manager, but he doesn’t meet his eyes. The guilt prickles at him again, but he swallows, forcing himself to look back at Eunseo. “Do you want to go back inside? Get something to drink?”

The corner of her mouth quirks, and he knows that’s the closest he’ll get to enthusiasm. He shoves the door open and lets her pass first, teasing, “Ladies first,” as she ducks under his arm. 

He casts one last glance at Seungcheol before turning back to the bar.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another update so soon? yes <3 i have so much uni work to avoid and editing is very fun <3 anyway here's 6k of angst, crack, angst, fluff, and crack, in that order <3 there's really something for everyone here! ty for reading as always <3 there's still at least 120k where this came from,, oops

Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s the heterosexuality, but Seungkwan can’t remember the last time he was this nauseated.

He’s been shamelessly watching Mingyu since he first saw him, and the reckless alcohol consumption has only made him more brash. Sure, he’s milled around and talked with his old elementary school friends, even winning a game of wine pong against Hansol. Until he saw the blonde girl go out to the balcony, he’d even considered the night a success considering nobody had cajoled him into singing “Sorry, Sorry” yet. 

And then, as if in slow motion, he couldn’t stop himself from watching her and Mingyu. He’d been so _bright_ as he went to her, and there wasn’t any denying the nature of their relationship. He can feel himself deflate, stupidly, and when they come back into the living room holding hands he drains his cup without a second thought.

“You good, man?” Hansol asks, noticing the tremor in his hands.

Seungkwan draws a hand across his mouth, smearing the taste of wine along his cheeks. “Yeah, yeah, sorry.” He turns back to Hansol, trying to remember what they’d been talking about before the blonde girl appeared. “Uh…”

Hansol follows his stare and the realization dawns in his eyes. He smirks and says, “Ah. Eunseo, huh.”

“What?” He starts, and Hansol, a mere silhouette in this lighting, pulls him by the elbow into the corner of the room opposite the pong table.

“That’s Eunseo,” Hansol whispers, gesturing to the girl draped all over Mingyu. He has an arm wrapped around her waist, leaning down every few moments to kiss the top of her head as they talk with someone. “Mingyu’s girlfriend.”

“I have eyes. I can tell who she is,” Seungkwan replies, a bit sharper than he’d intended to. Hansol raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push the issue. He can always count on him not to press when something’s hit a nerve, unlike some of his other friends. If Bin were here he’d have snapped back at him. He can almost hear his voice now: _And whose fault is it for falling for a straight boy? What are you disappointed for? Did you think you could make him gay?_

“No, of course not,” Seungkwan says aloud, to Hansol’s confusion. 

“Sorry?”

He takes a deep breath, steadies himself against the wall. “Thought I heard something. Sorry I’m being… you know. Weird.”

“No worries, dude. Are you okay?” Hansol’s searching his face, brows furrowed as he tries to puzzle out what’s going on in his head. Seungkwan wonders how much he knows, how much he suspects. He’s not out to Hansol — not because he doesn’t trust him or anything, but just because coming out to him would be a _thing_. It’d be a _deal_ , and he’d have to formally say the words instead of simply being himself like he is with his college friends. But Hansol knows him well and has for years; he could suspect. He probably gives off some kind of _vibe_ detectable to perceptive straight people, especially when he’s drunk, when he can’t keep up the façade of normalcy as well.

“Drunk. That’s it,” Seungkwan says. “I should… I should find Chan and Hansol.”

“You mean Seokmin? I’m right here.”

He nods, shaking himself. _So stupid. So drunk_. Hansol offers to help him look, but Seungkwan waves him off, tells him to go enjoy the party. In reality, he just needs to be alone for a moment and let his thoughts swim through him.

He pushes through the crowd to the dim hallway, a place where he can watch the action without being seen. Letting himself ease down the wall, he exhales through his nose and tries to calm the riot inside his head. 

_ It’s not a big deal. He has a girlfriend. That’s fine, Seungkwan, that doesn’t mean anything. You wouldn’t have done anything anyway _ . But the same fear as always tugs at him, the primal fear that follows him anytime he becomes acutely aware of the scope of heterosexuality. _You didn’t expect him to_ like _you, did you? Why on earth would he do something stupid like that? He’s_ Mingyu _and you’re_ you. _And that’s why you’ll be alone_. _It’s not even the fact that you’re gay. It’s because you’re like_ this.

He should go find his cousins and try to head home. It’s been too long since he’s taken his meds and he’s not adjusted to the time zone yet and he’s so tired and his head is pounding from the alcohol and the music and all he wants to do is crawl into his bed and sleep the whole night off. But the scene he imagines in his mind is downright pathetic: him finding Seokmin, who might not even be sober enough to drive, pulling on his sleeve and whimpering something about a headache. It’s barely past midnight and he wants to ruin the fun for everyone. Like always.

It’s then that he notices a figure standing above him holding out a Solo cup.

“Hi there,” a perky voice chirps. “We haven’t met.”

Seungkwan gets to his feet, frowning at the Solo cup. The boy anticipates his question and says, “Rum and coke. You looked like you needed it.” Once Seungkwan takes the cup, he says, “I swear I didn’t spike it or anything. I realize now how weird and shitty of a move this is. Oh god.” When he doesn’t respond, the boy continues babbling, “I was just trying to be social, I swear. God, maybe Jihoon was right and I need to try and audit the community college social interaction class.”

“I’m Seungkwan?” Seungkwan says, though it comes out more as a question.

“Oh. Yeah. I’ve heard of you. Soonyoung Kwon,” Soonyoung Kwon says. “I’m… well. I don’t know who you know here, but I know Seungcheol? He’s my boyfriend’s roommate’s boss.”

“He seems to be everyone’s boss,” Seungkwan remarks.

“Yeah, that’s also true. I was specifically referring to my boyfriend Jihoon and his roommate, Mingyu. But we’re all Koreans in Irvine, I mean, so we all kind of know each other by proxy, you know?” Soonyoung says with a shrug. Great, another tangential connection to Mingyu. Like he needs another reminder.

“I’m rapidly discovering that,” he replies, and, casting a glance at Soonyoung, takes a tentative sip from the proffered cup. Like all of the other drinks college students attempt to mix themselves, it’s shitty, to put it mildly. But it’s also alcohol, which cancels out the shittiness. Not that he needs to be more drunk — well, now that he’s watching Mingyu tickle this girl and laugh like a buffoon, he could and _should_ be more drunk. So he drinks.

Soonyoung asks, “So, who do you know here?”

“I’m staying here for the summer with my cousins, Seokmin and Chan.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of the party and takes another long sip. “And Hansol’s one of my best friends since, like, forever ago. Mingyu too.” He tries not to let his voice change upon saying Mingyu’s name, but the deliberate flatness of it is noticeable. Still, he’s probably overanalyzing; Soonyoung doesn’t react, anyway, just nods in understanding.

“Cool cool cool. Love those guys! Seokmin and I had, like, every class together in high school. He’s my dude.” 

“You said Mingyu’s roommate is your boyfriend?” Seungkwan interrupts, as it’s just now dawning on him that this guy is also gay. If Mingyu’s roommate is gay… 

He nods, a gigantic grin unfurling on his face. “Yeah! He’s not here ‘cause he’s in WeHo for the summer, but…” He gives him an askance look, realization beginning to dawn in his eyes. Soonyoung looks like he’s about to say _something_ when he’s interrupted by another boy’s hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, I’m getting tired. We should probably head out soon,” the other boy says. 

Soonyoung pouts, “So soon? It’s barely started.”

“We see these people all the time. There’ll be another one next week,” the other boy says. Seungkwan can’t puzzle out any of his features, as he’s only a silhouette backlit by the blue fairy lights in the living room behind him. He’s tall, though, and willowy, leaning with a casual arm against the wall. “Or do you want to try and catch a ride back with Gyu?”

“Well…” Soonyoung glances at Mingyu, who’s in the corner now fully making out with his girlfriend. “I don’t know how that whole process is gonna work. Given, you know, the rampant and excessive heterosexuality happening over there.” He winks at Seungkwan.

The other boy shrugs. “Your choice. I’m going soon.”

“Are you safe to drive, Hao?” Soonyoung’s voice changes then from an excited squawk to something far more gentle.

“I’m more sober than you or Mingyu.” His voice is sounding more and more familiar, and it’s when he says Mingyu’s name that he remembers who it belongs to. _Minghao_ … His drunk brain catches on the name, the same one he’d heard earlier today. It’s familiar, but why — _oh_. _Jun_.

“Hey,” Seungkwan says, suddenly emboldened by the liquor. “I met one of your friends yesterday. The day before yesterday? I dunno if it’s after midnight or not.” He sways a little, steadying himself against the wall. “His name was Jun? He lives in DC?”

Minghao chuckles at that. “Jun? And how was _that_ encounter?”

“He’s very…” He struggles to find the right word. “Forward.” 

“That sounds about right,” Soonyoung comments, sharing a glance with Minghao. “Was he flirting with you?”

“I — I don’t know, it was just a quick conversation we had on the Metro.” He’s blushing, he’s sure of it, and he’s never been more grateful for the cover of darkness.

“Did he or did he not apologize at staring at you because you looked ‘familiar?’” Minghao asks dryly, and his stomach tightens a little at the memory. It had been strange, sure, but he’d never thought of it as outright _flirting_. Then again, he never thinks of anything as flirting given the fact that he’s… well, him. Bin’s pointed it out time and time again; the only thing that’s ever gotten him to flirt back is alcohol. Which, luckily, he’s ingested tonight in copious amounts, allowing himself to talk about it without wanting to walk in front of said Metro car.

“Well — “

Soonyoung and Minghao burst into laughter before he can say another word. “Your face says it all,” Soonyoung says, wheezing. “It’s okay. It happens all the time. He’s really flirty with anyone who looks in his direction.”

“I’ve had to clean up his drunk messes so many times,” Minghao adds. “And to think they hired him at a _club_.”

“I thought he worked at Chipotle?” Seungkwan asks, though now that Minghao mentions it, this other job makes sense. He’d said he’d worked an overnight, after all, without mentioning where, and he’d seemed pretty out of it. 

“Oh, he does. At a Chipotle _and_ at a gay club,” Soonyoung says. “He’s a dancer.”

_ Oh.  _

“A-a dancer?” he echoes. “D-do you know where he — “ His mind is racing now, trying to retrace three years’ worth of steps. 

Soonyoung’s smirking again, but not at Seungkwan’s expense. He slaps a hand on his shoulder and says, “Seungkwan, Seungkwan, Seungkwan. I like you. In fact…” Soonyoung pulls out his phone and hands it to him. “Here. Put in your number.”

He does, trying not to let the tremor in his hand show too badly. When he’s finished, he hands it back to Soonyoung, who’s still positively beaming. “Great. You said you’re in town for the summer, right?” He doesn’t wait for a response, barreling on, “Because let me tell you, Minghao and I know all the best spots. And no offense, but you look like you could use some fun.”

“The best spots…” He echoes, fingers drumming on the rim of the cup.

“We are both homosexual men. We are referring to gay clubs,” Soonyoung clarifies. “I, of course, am assuming you are also a homosexual man. If you’re not, like, that’s fine, but I won’t lie, it’d be very disappointing.”

Minghao adds, “Jun and I are both dancers. We have connections.”

“He said you were famous…”

“Yes. As a dancer. At a gay club,” Minghao says this slowly, taking care to enunciate the words for Seungkwan’s drunken ears. “That’s how we met.”

“Oh.” He’s not sure how to respond to this. His thoughts are sluggish, and despite his inebriation, he still can’t make himself say the words. “Oh. Okay.”

They stew in silence for a moment before Minghao turns back to Soonyoung. “Listen, I really need to go. Are you going home with Gyu or with me? Before you ask, I’ve had one beer an hour and a half ago, and I am okay to drive.”

Soonyoung nods. “I’ll stay a little while longer. Go and sleep, my child.” He draws Minghao to him and looks about ready to kiss the top of his head before putting him in a headlock and ruffling his hair. Minghao scowls at him, giving him the middle finger before stalking off as Soonyoung giggles to himself. 

“Anyway, we were talking about homosexuality?” he says, turning back to Seungkwan.

Seungkwan takes a long sip of his drink.

* * *

  


The fluorescent lights of the pre-packaged snacks aisle of H Mart flicker, sending bolts of pain through Mingyu’s aching head.

His fingers grip the cool metal of the shelf as he squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling through his nose to try and distract himself from the pain. It’s only 11 a.m. and he’s scheduled to be here until 7 (though maybe by then the hangover will have worn off, if nothing else), and Seungcheol is of no help at all. He’d just tossed him a bottle of Advil in the staff room when he 

showed up at work an hour earlier, laughing a little as Mingyu rubbed at his tired eyes.

“It’s going to be a long day, Gyu,” he’d told him with a wink, disappearing into the back office. Smug bastard. How’d he make it through the night drinking as much as he had without so much as a headache the next day? It’s not fair. 

An impatient _ahjumma_ pushes at him with her cart, grumbling under her breath.

“Sorry,” he mutters, repeating it in his shitty, half-forgotten Korean as he steps aside to let her through. She only throws him a surly look in response.

A quick glance at his watch; still half an hour until Seungcheol’s smoke break and his opportunity to step outside for the briefest of moments. As he pushes armfuls of ketchup chips onto the shelf, he tries to piece together his foggy memories from last night. Everything past Eunseo’s arrival was now a blur, which didn’t make much sense given he’d only had a single beer. Well, at first — after that it had been two more, then some vodka shots, then some vague cocktail Hansol had mixed for him that tasted like lemonade. Whatever. Still. After she’d arrived, he could only remember the taste of her mouth on his and the painful sensation of blue balls after she’d bailed a bit past 12:30. _That_ was when the drinking started, he realizes, biting his lip as a toddler yells for his mother a few feet away.

Maybe he’d gone a bit far last night. Really, it wasn’t anything more obscene than what normally happened at these parties, but Eunseo had seemed _off_ even though she told him everything was fine. He should’ve listened — that was his main problem, wasn’t it, just doing things without thinking about them, without considering how anybody but him could feel. He makes a dim mental note to text her an apology during his break — to her and to Soonyoung, whom he’d stranded at the party by drinking too heavily. Sure, taking an Uber wasn’t the worst fate in the world, but it was a dick move after Minghao’d left. 

Another shriek from the toddler an aisle over. His hands shake, and he rubs at his temples in an attempt to make the pain stop. God. He’s never drinking the night before work again, never, never, never. Or, considering what happened with the shift before this one, staying up half the night. He will go to bed at 10 p.m. every night and stuff himself full of Benadryl if he has to.

“Hey buddy,” Seungcheol says, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Mingyu starts, the abruptness of his presence tightening his stomach (though that could also be the hangover). “Jesus Christ,” he breathes, hand to his chest, “Why would you scare me like that? Why? You know I’m suffering.” 

“Of course I do,” he tells him, his voice solemn. “That’s why I need to keep you on your toes. Sometimes you need to shake life up to truly feel alive.”

“You’re awfully wise for the manager of the Irvine H Mart.”

“Maybe I’m also the manager of life,” Seungcheol says simply, then leans down and begins piling chips onto the shelf. “Listen, Gyu. About last night…”

“We don’t have to talk about this.” Mingyu starts helping him, the pure awkwardness of the conversation distracting him from the headache snaking around his forehead. “Really.”

“We don’t _have_ to. I agree. And yet.” Seungcheol works quickly, far more quickly than Mingyu does even on a good day. Within a minute, he’s finished unpacking the entire box and moves on to the next, shuffling down the aisle without so much as a second thought until they reach the seaweed chips. When he places the box on the ground with a dull thud, he turns to Mingyu. “I’m worried about you.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes, then begins unpacking the seaweed chips. At least now he doesn’t have to look at Seungcheol and endure that doe-eyed stare of his. “I know. You’ve told me. You don’t have to keep telling me, Cheol. Like, I got it. I’m depressed and in a dead-end job and my life is going to be full of great things if only I let it! I just need to try!” A package of seaweed chips cracks under his hands as he squeezes, too hard. “It’s fine. I really don’t want to have this talk. I’m good. Really. I promise.”

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything for a moment, only stands beside him and aligns the chips on the shelf with him. After they’ve finished with the seaweed, Mingyu is about to push the cart to the other end of the aisle when Seungcheol stops it with his foot. “I know you don’t want to talk about it. Trust me, Gyu, I _know_. I’m not doing it for my health.” Ironically, this statement is punctuated with a rough cough, a smoker’s cough. He wheezes for a second, then straightens up as if he’d never been interrupted. “But. I care about you a lot, you know that? A lot of people do. We just want — “

“Me to be happy,” he finishes flatly. “Yes. I agree. That would be pretty sweet, wouldn’t it? That’s the goddamn dream.” He moves to push the cart when Seungcheol grabs his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. “Seungcheol. Let me do my job.”

Mingyu tries to break out of his grip, but Seungcheol is unfazed. He says, his voice low so the customers don’t hear, “Mingyu. You are sick. Go home.”

“I’m not — “ he sputters, but he’s cut off.

“You’re hungover. You reek of alcohol. Go home and get your shit together and come back on Monday,” Seungcheol says, his manager voice on in full force. His words are slow and measured, like he’s talking to a child instead of one of his best friends. 

“That’s two days from now. I have another shift tomorrow, Cheol — “ he protests, but Seungcheol doesn’t let him finish.

“Go. Now, Mingyu.”

Mingyu snorts and pulls himself away. “Fine. Fine! I get it. I fucking get it.” He unties his apron, muttering under his breath. He’s too mad at himself to really be pissed at Seungcheol, but he still can’t help but let out a quiet “ _Fuck_ ” as he passes him by. 

He doesn’t look back as he stalks towards the break room. Wonwoo sits at one of the tables, sipping a juice box and reading a novel, when he walks in.

“Are you o — “

“I’m fine,” Mingyu says. He thrusts open his locker and begins grabbing his things, trying not to make eye contact with his friend. If he does, something inside him will break, he knows it. As long as he just keeps looking at the lump of his keys at the bottom of his locker, he’ll be fine.

He looks up at Wonwoo.

Wonwoo blinks at him, concerned, juice box forgotten, novel face-up on the table. He bites his lip, looking as if he’s about to say something, but Mingyu’s sure the look on his face is advising him against it. 

“Just… sick,” he mutters. “Going home early.”

Wonwoo nods.

“It’s fine,” Mingyu adds.

Wonwoo doesn’t say anything, just stares at him as he takes a sip of juice. God, that stare. It’s not intense, it’s not probing, but something about it… something about it makes him want to tell him everything. He and Wonwoo are friends, sure, but they’re not _talking about your inner feelings_ close. That honor goes only to Seungcheol, who wrested it from him by force, and Eunseo, but mostly because he’d feel guilty if he didn’t reciprocate her vulnerability.

“Really,” Mingyu says.

Another moment passes like this, in delicate silence. He can’t make himself move; as awful as he feels, mentally and physically, the thought of going home feels worse, somehow, than being caught in this awful corporate purgatory. At any second Seungcheol will appear and tell him to get lost, he knows it, but still. Here he is, frozen.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he snaps, even though he knows Wonwoo is literally doing nothing but taking his half an hour break and reading, neither of which are sins.

Wonwoo looks down then, back at his book. But the chair to his right slides out, just a little bit. A silent invitation. Still, he keeps reading like nothing’s happened.

A guilty glance at the door, just an assurance that nobody will come in. Mingyu sits, reluctantly. Just for a moment. Just to catch his breath as the pain in his head drones on and on and on.

“Did he ask you to go, or did he tell you?” Wonwoo asks without looking up. 

He blows out a breath, considering what to say. “Told me.”

“I’m surprised you went along with it.”

“Didn’t have much choice,” he says, and even he can hear the pout in his voice. “If I didn’t, he’d’ve gotten really mad at me.” What he doesn’t say aloud is his hidden fear: _he would’ve fired me_. He knows it to be true; he’d looked in Seungcheol’s eyes and seen a pain there, a pity disguised as anger. If he thought that Mingyu leaving was for the best, he’d have done it right then and there in the pre-packaged snacks aisle, customers be damned. He’d have told him not to come back, that his days there were over if he didn’t refuse to help himself. But he’d held back; he probably sensed that, for Mingyu, this job is all he has, that if he were cut adrift he wouldn’t have much left to hold onto. So he’d backed off, and without a justifiable cause to let him go, he’d given him a warning. Two days off to think, the threat implicit: _come back better, and not just from the hangover_. Like it would help. Like the lack of a routine would somehow coerce his mind into behaving.

Wonwoo purses his lips, still staring down at his novel. “I’m sure you know this,” he says, his words careful, deliberate. “But it’s not anger. It’s coming from a place of concern.”

“I figured as much.”

“And he’s not the only one who feels that way,” he continues.

“Is this a fucking intervention, then?” He clenches his nails into his palm, letting the bite of pain distract him from the anger rising in his throat. Like any of them fucking knew what was best for him — even more ironic, like any of them were doing so much better themselves. Hansol was still two years away from a music production degree, his SoundCloud numbers abysmal (even for SoundCloud), Wonwoo was still in school for fucking _English literature_ of all things, and Seungcheol, was, of course, still the manager of an H Mart without any obvious way out. That wasn’t even considering Dongho, who worked two other jobs at Baja Fresh and Staples; Aron, who was supposedly studying something as a graduate student, though he seemed to have been doing it for, like, four years now; and Minki, who drifted from job to job like a narcoleptic jellyfish. None of them were in a better position. None of them had any _right_ — 

But Wonwoo doesn’t lecture him. He neither confirms nor denies the intervention, only saying, “It’s just friendship, Mingyu.”

He gets to his feet, places his hands flat on the table. Clearly this isn’t going anywhere.

“I’m just going to go, I think,” he says, reaching for his backpack.

Wonwoo finally looks up, and to Mingyu’s surprise, he looks almost amused. “Cut a little close, huh?” He chuckles a little ruefully, but not in a cruel way. More like he was surprised that that was all it took.

Mingyu bites back a retort, instead shouldering his backpack and muttering a half-hearted “See you later.” He’s not sure where’s he’s going, but he has to get out of here before every single fucking H Mart employee crawls out of the woodwork like some fucked-up Christmas ghost to tell him how, exactly, he’s fucked himself over in life by working at H Mart for three years. 

Once he’s out of H Mart, he hops on his bike and starts pedaling. He chooses a direction at random, and after a few blocks, he finds himself heading to the beach. The sun in his eyes is agonizing, his mouth dusty and rancid-tasting, but he keeps going, trying not to think about any of the things he’s left behind him. But inevitably, he does. 

Why now? What had happened to trigger this sudden interest in his well-being? The others had always looked at him with a bit of pity when they realized he had little life to speak of outside his job, but they’d never outright told him he was ruining his life. Nor had they cornered him and asked how they could “help.” He snorts aloud and nearly swerves into a pigeon on the sidewalk, righting himself just in time to almost crash into a little girl holding an ice cream cone.

“Shit — “

He screeches to a halt and props his bike against a streetlight. The girl is still standing there, staring at him, but she looks unhurt. He takes a few cautious steps forward, holding his hands out like he’s approaching a wild beast.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “I’m really sorry.”

Her gaze snaps up at him as he inches closer, and he realizes how he must appear. A tall, bedraggled boy covered in sweat who’s come a hair’s breadth from killing her. The girl blinks, and the ice cream drips to the ground in a steady pink stream. 

“Where’s your, um — “ He scratches the back of his neck, searches the surrounding sidewalk. “Your person. Your adult.”

She drops the cone and breaks into a run, dashing to the other side of the street and into an older man’s waiting arms. Settling the girl on his hip, the man flips Mingyu off and stalks away.

Great. He’s about to turn back around and hop onto his bike when the paper wrapping of the ice cream cone flaps in the wind, drawing his fractured attention. He can barely read Hangul, but even he can tell what it says: Lee _Bbangjib_. The bakery. It must be nearby, then. Not that he’s ever been, really, beyond making a delivery or two when Dongho didn’t feel like being on truck duty. 

His eyes flicker to the sign posted at the intersection, and he orients himself immediately. He’s a few blocks southwest of H Mart, inching closer to the ocean… He hops back on his bike and pedals another few blocks south until he reaches the street he’s looking for. There, with the red roof and the swoopy, calligraphic Hangul sign. _Lee Bbangjib_. He’s not sure why he’s here, or what his goal is in coming — judging by the way he’s just treated Seungcheol and Wonwoo, he doesn’t seem to be in an overly social mood. But the incident with him nearly running over that girl… as stupid as it sounds, it felt like fate. Somehow. Given that she got up and walked away, anyway.

He locks up his bike, looping the chain around a streetlight a few storefronts down the street from the bakery. His pulse hammers in the base of his throat for some reason as he approaches. He doesn’t know why he’s nervous, or why he’s here, but he presses on and forces himself to open the door, cringing a little at the shrill clang of the bell announcing his arrival.

The bakery is small but tidy, the case in front full of ornate little pastries and a variety of beautifully-colored ice creams. The whole place is stuffed with weird, kitschy Korean art mixed with American license plates; a weird pastiche, as Minghao would say. At the sound of the bell, three heads behind the counter jerk up — one blond, one dark brown, the other black, like a trio of kittens. _Seungkwan_. He doesn’t really recognize the other two boys, the blond and the brunette, but Seungkwan greets him so warmly he doesn’t find himself caring that much.

“Mingyu! What are you doing here?” Seungkwan calls, resting his elbows on the case. He’s got a smudge of flour on his cheek, his glasses crooked on his nose. 

“I, um — “ He glances at the other two boys, who smile in that plastic customer service kind of way. “I got the day off. Unexpectedly.”

Seungkwan nods. “Sick from last night?”

“Well… yeah. I was working this morning but I, you know… was not feeling too great.” He smiles a little, awkwardly. “I was biking home and, well, ended up here.”

Seungkwan wipes his hands on his apron and says to the brunette, “Jeonghan? Could you, er, check on the — ?” Before he can finish, the other’s rushed off while the brunette rolls his eyes. “Oh, never mind, sorry.” He turns back to Jeonghan, cheeks aflame. Mingyu wants to rub away the flour like a mother would, to lick his thumb and erase it from his face. It’s a strange impulse, and he blinks a little at Seungkwan. 

“You’ve got something…” Mingyu says, pointing. “On your cheek.”

Seungkwan frowns and tries to wipe it away but fails, instead going for the other side of his face. After an agonizing thirty seconds of Mingyu trying to communicate where it is, he instead steps forward and leans over the counter, swiping the spot off with the pad of his thumb. He can feel the skin beneath his fingers heat up and he realizes how close together their heads are — he’s a few inches at most, close enough to spy a constellation of moles curled around Seungkwan’s ears. His eyes catch on them for a second and Seungkwan holds perfectly still, like he’s afraid to move away from Mingyu’s touch.

He’s not sure how long he’d have stayed like that, cupping Seungkwan’s cheek awkwardly, if not for the other boy’s reemergence from the kitchen.

“Seungkwan, they’re not quite — oh, sorry,” he says, and takes a step back.

Mingyu recoils and rests his hands against the glass as if slapped. 

When Seungkwan turns to the other boy, his face is red, the tips of his ears a bright pink. “Oh, thanks for checking, Josh.” He clears his throat. “Sorry, I didn’t, um, introduce you — unless you know each other?” 

Josh turns to Mingyu, looking him over with big brown eyes. “I don’t think so? I’m Joshua, by the way,” he says. “I’d offer my hand, but it’s sticky from red bean paste.”

“Nice to meet you. Mingyu,” he returns. “And you are…?” He glances at the boy with the dark brown hair, the one who lounges languidly against the case.

His eyes flick over to Mingyu without moving his head. “Jeonghan.” He yawns, stretching his arms over his head like a cat.

“We work here,” Joshua adds unhelpfully.

“So you’re not just super-fans who climbed over the counter, then,” Mingyu jokes, but even he can tell that it’s fallen flat. Joshua, at least, pretends to smile a little, but Jeonghan just stares down at his fingernails.

Silence settles over them for a moment until Seungkwan, whose face is finally returning to normal, asks, “So, um, did you want anything? To eat, I mean.”

Mingyu looks down at the pastries sitting in the case, glittering under the white light. They’ve done an excellent job of making this place instagram-worthy, which, in Southern California, is a very smart move. He’s deep in thought about whether he’s sure he knows his instagram password when Jeonghan says, “When is Seokmin coming back? I need to go home.”

Joshua replies, “He said he’d be back, like, twenty minutes ago, I think.”

“Or was he just saying that so he could go talk to that girl?” Jeonghan asks, and Mingyu can practically hear the sneer in his voice even though he can’t see his face. His eyes have gone unfocused as he stares at a bun filled with red bean paste.

“Who knows. Seungkwan, you were at that party last night, right? What happened with him and Luda?” Joshua says, and Mingyu finally looks back up at the three of them. Seungkwan shifts from side to side, his mouth twisted in a frown.

“Well,” he says, glancing at Mingyu, “I mean, last night, he… he got really drunk, you know, and he disappeared for a while, so I’m not sure…”

“I saw him talking with Luda for a while,” Mingyu offers. 

Jeonghan snorts. “Yeah, that sounds right. He never shuts up about her.”

“I’ve been waiting for that to happen for ages,” Mingyu says. “It’s not like she doesn’t feel the same way, either. It’s kind of funny, actually, watching them try to pretend they’re just casual friends.”

“Seokmin doesn’t seem to think he’s good enough for her, either,” Joshua adds. “He’s always going on about how pretty she is and how he’s, like, a troll or an ogre or something.”

“Actually, Shua, he was saying that about you. You just weren’t listening closely enough,” Jeonghan drawls, drawing with a single finger on the glass. Seungkwan and Joshua both roll their eyes at this, but Joshua doesn’t deign to respond.

“Anyway! Yeah, it’s really ironic,” Joshua says, continuing as if Jeonghan had never spoken. “I literally don’t understand how any of this works. Jeonghan is the most straightforward person ever.” He smiles at Jeonghan, and Mingyu suddenly realizes what he means. 

Seungkwan is blushing again, and the two of them share a look of shared discomfort everyone surrounding a couple always feels. Dimly, Mingyu thinks about how he must’ve alienated everyone last night when he’d laced his fingers in Eunseo’s hair and — 

“Ah, Mingyu Kim.” 

Shit. Mingyu straightens himself up at the sound of Mr. Lee’s voice. Seokmin and Chan’s father stands at the threshold of the kitchen, his face unreadable. Oh god he hopes he’s not going to get the three of them in any trouble for talking to him instead of doing their jobs. Seungcheol is usually okay with chatter as long as it’s kept to a minimum, but that’s _Seungcheol_ and not somebody’s parent and the owner of a small family business. 

“Good morning, sir,” Mingyu says, remembering his manners. 

“It’s noon.”

Jeonghan snickers behind his hand, and even Seungkwan looks to be holding in a laugh. 

“My mistake. I was distracted by, er, how beautiful the bakery is.”

“Calm down, I’m not Eunseo. You don’t have to justify yourself to me,” Mr. Lee says wryly, and Mingyu blinks a few times in surprise.

“I — um — “ Seriously, did _everybody_ know about him and Eunseo now? 

“Relax, Mingyu,” Mr. Lee says with a gentle smile. “I’m just teasing.” He rests a hand on Seungkwan’s shoulder, and Seungkwan looks up at him with a grin. “Isn’t that right?”

Seungkwan nods.

“Ha… that was… a good one,” Mingyu says weakly. “Got me there with the, uh, girlfriend reference and all. How did you — “ He doesn’t even really know Mr. Lee, not in any meaningful way beyond the way he knows most of his classmate’s parents. It’s not as if he and Seokmin were ever close, anyway. So unless one of the three boys living under his roof gossiped, or maybe Eunseo’s mom or somebody, how would he even put Mingyu’s name to his face, nevertheless his girlfriend’s name?

“The boys gossip. Just like their mom, I suppose.” Mr. Lee shrugs.

Well, that doesn’t really clear anything up, either. He toys with the hem of his shirt, wondering what the correct response is to a statement like that, when Jeonghan interrupts, “Mr. Lee, if Seungkwan is helping out, does that mean I can go early?”

“I’m surprised you don’t want to wait for Chan,” Mr. Lee responds.

“Fair enough. Can I at least not be working while I wait for him?” 

“If you don’t mind not being paid, then sure. What you do on your time is your business,” Mr. Lee says. He winks at Mingyu and says, “Jeonghan here just _loves_ Chan. _Loves_ him! You wouldn’t believe it. He’s really taken him under his wing.”

Jeonghan gives Mingyu a flinty stare, brows drawn as he says, “If anything ever happened to Chan Lee, I’d destroy this entire state. The San Andreas fault would be ruptured like a week-old blister, and this city would slide into the ocean as fires consume everything east of the valley. The United States’s economy would plummet from the loss of California and its agricultural, entertainment, and tourism revenue, but it would be worth it if I eliminated any potential threat to Chan’s happiness.”

Nobody really knows what to make of this except Mr. Lee, who guffaws as he plants a reassuring hand on Jeonghan’s shoulder. “I never get tired of that. He gives it so seriously every time! It’s a riot!” He chuckles a little to himself again and sighs. “Well. Just for that, you can have fifteen minutes on the clock without doing any work.”

“Thank you, sir.” In one fluid motion, Jeonghan jumps over the counter and saunters to a table, kicking out a chair with one foot as he pulls out his phone. 

The others, except Seungkwan, barely react to this. 

“Uncle Jongho?” Seungkwan asks. 

“Yes, dearest nephew?”

He drums his fingers against the case, biting his lip. What could Seungkwan have to be nervous about? “Could I, um — “

Before he can finish, a bell chimes in the doorway, announcing Seokmin and Chan’s arrival. They come bearing paper bags full of groceries, and Mingyu wonders dimly if they’ve just been by H Mart. They could’ve just missed him. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe they saw that scene in the pre-packaged snacks aisle and know that his manager thinks he’s a soused-up depressive. 

“Appa! We come bearing gifts!” Chan crows, and he doesn’t make it three feet in the door before Jeonghan’s wrapped himself around him, murmuring “Channie! Hyung is here!” 

Seokmin sidesteps this and, ignoring Mingyu, puts the bags on the counter. “Kwannie! Joshie! How is business?”

Meanwhile, Chan is trying to escape Jeonghan’s grip, whining, “Hyung… please…” as the older boy ruffles his hair with one hand. Mr. Lee takes the scene in, chuckling, as he begins to unpack the groceries.

“I’ll let you all get back to work,” Mingyu mumbles, and taking advantage of the chaos Seokmin and Chan have brought with them, slips out the door and into the street.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello !! hope this week has been good for everyone~ here's a bit of a chunkier chapter! i'm trying out some stuff with formatting text messages so hopefully it looks okay !!! things are about to get ~interesting~ here hehe

Days pass like this. 

Seungkwan’s fully ingratiated himself into his new Californian life, waking at six a.m. to don the old apron Uncle Jongho’s provided him and begin baking pastries for the morning crowd. Seokmin and Chan have classes, so he’s usually left with Joshua and Jeonghan until the other two show up mid-afternoon. Joshua and Jeonghan are fine, perfectly nice, really, and it’s not like they’re particularly romantic in front of him or anything. They get along quite well for the most part — it’s only when he catches the two of them in the back amongst the boxes of rice flour that things get embarrassing.

And also when Jeonghan gets cranky and, unable to take it out on Joshua in good conscience, decides to pick on Seungkwan. He doesn’t mean anything by it — that’s what Joshua says, anyway — but his barbs stick, and he stews on them for hours afterward, long after he’s untied the apron and clocked out to spend the afternoon wandering around town. Most of the time the Acura is available, and Auntie Jihyeon doesn’t care much whether he uses it. It’s these afternoons he likes the best; when he’s alone with his phone plugged into the aux, when he scours the streets for the places he associates with the cloudy memories of his childhood. From time to time, he’ll call Bin or Minhyuk or Sanha to catch up. It’s not as if it’s been too long since he’s last seen them, but still, he misses the sound of their voices. He doesn’t see Seokmin and Chan as much as he’d thought he would, given their opposing schedules, and he’s been too shy to text Hansol or Soonyoung after that drunken night at Seungcheol Choi’s house. To his credit, Hansol’s been trying. He texts him every few days to invite him out to some function or another, but Seungkwan always finds an excuse not to go. They’re usually late at night, and he’s been going to bed at 10:30 to get the optimal amount of rest before he hauls himself out of bed the next morning.

And then there’s Mingyu.

It’s been two weeks since Mingyu came into the bakery that morning with his hair all mussed up and an anxious look in his eye. Seungkwan’s turned it over in his mind again and again, looking for some clue as to why he’d come in, why he’d left so quietly, and, well. Who he’d come there to see. He’s seen him a few times since; after that morning, he’d dropped by before work a few times, still half-asleep, his voice gravelly from having just woken up, eyes bleary and barely open as he ordered a single black coffee. Seungkwan tries not to think about these encounters too much, tries not to wonder what it’d be like to — dare he even think it — wake up next to him, to run his hands through his rumpled hair, to —

Life is good. He reminds himself of that daily, that his life here is a privilege and a dream. He can see himself fully living in it, can envision himself abandoning Washington, DC for the West Coast, trading classrooms for kitchens, sleepless nights for early mornings, weeks of exams for loaves of bread. If not for his friends he’s left behind (and the looming threat of the lease he’d renewed last month), he’d consider it. Maybe. Just a bit.

On his third Wednesday in Irvine, he receives a text from Hansol inviting him to another one of the H Mart staff parties. This one, however, is a bonfire at Newport Beach. When he gives him a reluctant yes, pending his transport (Seokmin and Chan will want to go too, after all), Soonyoung follows up shortly after.

> _hello mr. seungkwan_

> _a little bird tells me you will be attending friday’s festivities_

> _um.. yes? thinking about it, anyway_

> _think no more_

> _i have a plan for us_

_us?_

> _you, me, and minghao_

Seungkwan’s not sure he likes where this is going. He’s been living his firmly closeted life here for a few weeks now, and something in him is afraid, almost, of what it’d be like to not have to experience that. If he remembers how it feels to be himself, he might — maybe he’ll — 

> _what do you say?_

He swallows, unsure what he’ll find himself saying. 

> _it's pride month, seungkwan_

> _you owe it to us_

> _or are you going to celebrate the kia summer sales event with our straight friends?_

He meets up with Soonyoung and Minghao the next afternoon at a nearby cafe to hash out the plans, because as it turns out, they’re more complicated than Soonyoung had made them sound over text. Because of course they are. He can’t help but wonder why Soonyoung’s drawn him into this; after all, they barely know each other. But when he brings this up, Soonyoung rolls his eyes.

“The bonds that bind the gays are tight,” he says, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You, Minghao, and Jihoon are all I’ve got in this world. Do you know how hard it is to hang out with Mingyu? Or Seungcheol? It’s like being in Riverdale. I don’t want to live in Riverdale, Seungkwan.”

Seungkwan chuckles a bit at that, the knot in his chest beginning to unwind. When he looks up, Soonyoung is smiling — a genuine smile, too, not one meant to coerce him into doing anything. Well, that element is there. But it’s not the _main_ element.

“What’s the plan?” he asks, and Soonyoung and Minghao share a conspiratorial look.

“How do you feel about road trips?” Minghao asks carefully. “Specifically, road trips of an indeterminate length, at odd hours of the night, the endpoint of which is still unknown.”

He bites his lip. “I mean… I shouldn’t really be away from my cousins for too long…”

“Surely they’ll understand that you have other friends that aren’t them,” Soonyoung says. “Like, that’s just a basic thing to be able to wrap your head around.”

Still, the thought makes him uneasy. He says, “I dunno. It feels… rude…”

“Listen. Seungkwan. It’s okay to spend some time with other people. Just tell them you’re staying at Hansol’s or something and they’ll get it. Or!” Soonyoung lights up with a newfound revelation, a slow, evil smile spreading over his face. “Tell them you’re with Mingyu. It’s perfect.”

“Mingyu? Why…?”

For once, he and Minghao are on the same page. They both stare at Soonyoung in confusion, and they watch the debate play out on his face. That’s the thing about Soonyoung, maybe the first thing he’s really noticed about him: he can’t lie. He broadcasts his thought process loud and clear for all to see, preventing any subtlety. 

When he speaks, he chooses his words carefully. “Well. There’s… a _thing_ with Seokmin and Mingyu. I dunno if you’ve noticed.”

“I’ve noticed,” he and Minghao say in unison.

Soonyoung continues, “Yeah. So. If you say you’re staying with him, well, for one it’ll be understandable because you two are old friends, and two, Seokmin will leave you alone and not question it very much. Or try to follow along, which is the other concern.”

“And why can’t he go with us to our undetermined location?”

“This is not a trip for heterosexuals,” Soonyoung replies. “Call me heterophobic or whatever, but, well. I don’t want to have to self-censor for however long, you know?”

He does know. He knows too well what that feels like, and part of him, he has to admit, is excited at the prospect of being alone with other gay people for some odd number of hours. He doesn’t often get the opportunity to speak openly about what it actually _feels_ like, except for when he’s with Bin, and even then, he’s one person. Minhyuk and Sanha don’t care, but still, it’s not the same; there’s always a part of him that’s held back around them. 

“Wait,” Seungkwan says, leaning forward across the table. “So what’s the, uh, the thing, then? Between Seokmin and Mingyu?”

Soonyoung blows out a long breath, sinking down in his chair so that his forehead is practically even with the table. He stays like that for a long, silent moment before sitting back up. “It’s… complicated,” he says. “I technically shouldn’t know about it, but I know people who know people. And I don’t know if I should say, you know? It’s not my place.”

“We both know that’s bullshit,” Minghao says. “You just don’t want to tell us. You like being the only person who knows.”

He shrugs, twisting his mouth into a neutral kind of expression. “Sure. Maybe that’s true. But still, you know, it’s different from my usual gossip. I have morals sometimes.”

Neither he nor Minghao pries further, though Seungkwan can’t quash his curiosity. He’d noticed, of course, the tension between Seokmin and Mingyu; it was hard not to, given that they both were downright ebullient with pretty much everyone else. He had almost no insight into that whole situation, aside from what Seokmin had said before the house party about Mingyu dropping out of college. Had something happened around that time? Was it something to do with Luda and Eunseo? It doesn’t seem like Seokmin to hold a grudge about something like that, something as inconsequential as girl problems. And it does seem to be on Seokmin’s part — Mingyu had been the polite one in their handful of encounters. So why…?

They all stew on this for a minute until Soonyoung puts his hands back down on the table and looks at them both. “So! Anyway! Back to logistics. Tomorrow night, Seungkwan, we’re planning on sneaking away around midnight. Seungcheol is probably planning some big event, knowing him, so it’ll be the perfect distraction.”

“And why are we sneaking away instead of just… leaving?”

Soonyoung sighs, twisting a lock of bright red hair around his finger. “Seungkwan, Seungkwan, Seungkwan. My love. It’s for the _drama_ of it all. Obviously.” When Seungkwan just blinks at him, he adds, “Also because it’s awkward to say ‘bye, y’all, we’re going on a gays-only road trip and none of you are invited.’ So, like, if you’re going to do an awkward, maybe-dickish thing, why not do it with some fucking panache, right?”

“I… I guess I can buy that. Sure.”

“Good. I was simply waiting on your approval before continuing to hatch my master plan. So, around midnight, we’ll sneak away toward the parking lot and get in the Minghao Express — that’s the BMW, it’s very nice, I’m sure you’ll like it — and head towards our first stop of the evening: LAX.” He pulls out a physical map — an actual, physical map of the Los Angeles metropolitan area — and traces the route up the 5 with a finger. “That won’t hopefully take too long, given the late hour. Then again, it’s California, and it’s LAX, so who’s to say?”

“Are we flying somewhere?” Seungkwan asks, furrowing an eyebrow.

“ _We_ are not, no,” says Soonyoung, but doesn’t explain further. “And after that… well. To quote the last words of Henry Ward Beecher, now comes the mystery.”

Minghao nods in appreciation at the literary reference. 

“So that’s all we have for right now. Newport to LAX, midnight tomorrow, and after that, destination unknown. Just bring extra clothes and toiletries for an overnight, but Minghao and I will take care of the logistics,” Soonyoung says, sharing another meaningful look with Minghao.

They sit and idly chat about their lives for a while after that, and Seungkwan loses track of time until his phone vibrates, a picture of Seokmin lighting up the screen. He leans away from Soonyoung and Minghao, who are arguing about how to pronounce _quandary_ , to answer the call.

“Kwannie! _Eodi-ya_?” Seokmin yells on the other end.

Seungkwan _almost_ considers answering him in Korean simply because he knows his skills outstrip his cousin’s, then decides against it once he realizes the words won’t come to him in time. Instead, he settles for a casual, “I’m out with Hansol. What’s going on?”

“Oh, okay, okay! Don’t worry then, go have fun — “

“ _Gwaenchanha_ ,” he teases, now that a single word in his second language has come to him. Then, “No, no, it’s okay. Is everything good?”

“Everything is _stellar_ , my dearest cousin. My lovely appa and eomma — and Channie too, of course — were wondering if you would like to come home and then go out to dinner.”

His heart still does a little pitter-pat whenever his aunt and uncle make any kind of outward indication that they love him. He knows that rationally, of course they love him, otherwise they wouldn’t give up a perfectly lovely spare room for him for twelve weeks, but still, it’s not like they’re overly lovey and touchy, and any sign that he is thought about or missed at all by anyone at any time he is not in someone’s immediate line of sight fills his chest with a buoyant kind of lightness. It’s the realization that he _exists_ , and that his existence means it’s capable for him to love and to be _loved_ in return, and now he knows that his antidepressants really are working because who the hell reacts like that to an inquiry about dinner plans?

“Y-yes, that sounds great! I’ll be back in twenty,” he stutters into the phone, and mumbles some kind of goodbye before hanging up.

Soonyoung gives him a quizzical look, which for Soonyoung, looks more like suspicion. “What was all that about?” he asks, trying (in vain) to keep his voice light.

“Just Seokmin. The family wants me home,” he says, moving to grab his bag.

Minghao raises an eyebrow.

“Well, have fun,” says Soonyoung. “Don’t, uh… you know. Make sure you keep things subtle. On the down low. I assume you’re familiar with that.”

“I’m closeted in a Korean family. I think I know how to lie,” Seungkwan replies with a snort. He bids them goodbye, hoping they’ll still like him even when he’s gone and not in their immediate line of sight. It’s a common worry of his, and he thinks about it as he slides into the Acura and begins backing out of the tight parking spot. It’s not so much the worry of being forgotten; it’s more that they’ll forget to like him. Like, once he stops existing near them, they won’t be able to remember why they’d kept him near anyway. He tries to place this thought in the back of his mind as he drives, tries to think of the thought as a passing car like Andy from Headspace had taught him.

When he pulls into the driveway of the Lee’s house, the thought still rattles around his skull like spare change.

Some things, he muses, you just can’t run away from.

* * *

Mingyu is good at working.

He’s so good at working, in fact, that he can do it for days and weeks and months and years on end without thinking too much about it. Really, work is the only place he doesn’t have to think. When his head is clear. For eight hours it’s just him and the cart of things to stock. It’s like a big and awful scavenger hunt, some clever geocaching game he’s being paid to populate. He can conjure metaphors upon metaphors on what his job is, and it’s like slathering a fresh coat of paint over his life. It’s a reverse Easter egg hunt! It’s a perpetual crossword puzzle! It’s like he’s Indiana Jones, but his job is to put the priceless artifacts back where they belong! If he thinks about it, grocery stocking is like a direct way of making people happy. All these _ahjummas_ with their little purses, they cruise through the aisles looking for the perfect ingredients to keep their families happy and well-fed, and that, really, it benefits so many people, if you think about it. There’s no telling how many people he’s fed just by doing his job — and to think, he gets paid to do it!

He told Wonwoo about this once, and his coworker had not shared his enthusiasm.

“I mean… if you say so,” he’d said with an indifferent shrug. Oh well. Fuck Wonwoo. He had his own separate life to try and ascribe meaning to, anyway. Good luck with making English literature worthwhile. How many people can you help with _Moby Dick_? Not nearly as many as you can help in the frozen _tteokbokki_ section! 

Maybe he’s defensive just because he has to be. Because he knows now that Seungcheol’s watching him whenever he’s at work and even when he’s not. He knows he’s painted a target on his own back, and now they were all watching and waiting to see when he’d slip and reveal that he’s secretly had severe depression this entire time.

Well, he hasn’t. He’s never been depressed in his life, and he’s not about to start now. So all of them, however many have joined Seungcheol’s little cabal, can shove it up their asses. There’s no need for a Saving Mingyu Club.

He’s thinking about all of this, ironically enough, at work. He’s in the dairy locker again, stocking milk with Wonwoo as he mumbles about his summer courses in French war literature. Mingyu’s trying to do him the favor of listening — Wonwoo has an exam coming up, after all, and that’s what he normally does to study — but his words are too boring to stick in his memory. 

“And so then, you know, post-war, things seemed so absurd, and that’s when writers like Samuel Beckett really began to experiment with traditional literary tropes and structures…” Wonwoo’s saying as he hefts a crate of _banana uyu_ onto a high shelf. His breath clouds as he continues talking about it paralleling a similar movement in French cinema, and every once in a while he glances over at Mingyu, he supposes, to make sure he’s still alive or something.

“And you also have to consider the subsequent Oulipo movement, which utilized this really intricate kind of mathematical technique to convey ideas. Hey, Gyu, um, would you hand me the ice pick — “ When Mingyu does, he stops his monologue and meets his eyes. “Thank you for listening to me, by the way. I know this is all really boring.”

Mingyu shrugs. “’s not boring to you, though. I don’t mind.”

“That’s kind of you.” He’s about to turn around, go back to stocking milk, when he stops again and asks him, somewhat bashfully, “Do you, um… do you have a favorite book?”

Of the things Wonwoo could have asked him, he wasn’t expecting that. Mingyu thinks for a moment, straining to recall the last time he read anything that wasn’t on a screen. “Uh… I dunno. Like, what’s the one with the guy who turns into a bug?”

“ _The Metamorphosis_?”

He snaps his fingers. “Yeah! That one. That one’s pretty good.”

Wonwoo nods, even though it must be clear that Mingyu is utterly bullshitting him. “Yeah, yeah, I agree. Kafka’s got a way of writing about those kinds of feelings, doesn’t he? Isolation… self-loathing…” He gives Mingyu a pointed look.

“Wonwoo, I swear to god if this is some kind of — “

Wonwoo holds out his hands, eyes wide behind his glasses. “It’s not, it’s not! I swear. Mingyu, I respect your wishes. I wouldn’t joke about that.” He pauses then and turns away. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’ve been defensive lately, I guess.” And with good reason, though he won’t say this aloud. The silence now feels tense and humid, despite the frigidity of the locker. To make conversation, he asks, “You’re going to the bonfire tonight, right?”

“Probably. Even though it’s incredibly illegal.”

“Since when do you care about things being illegal?” he retorts with a snort. Wonwoo, despite his appearance, has done his fair share of stealing, imbibing, and on one particularly memorable occasion, streaking. Of all of them, he transformed the most when he was drunk, and his drunk self was an absolute _riot_.

“Fair point,” Wonwoo says, and they lapse back into silence.

This was about how well all of his conversations with his coworkers went now. Usually he could count on his charm and raw charisma to carry him through any kind of social interaction, but his hyperawareness of his own behavior had made that difficult since the day Seungcheol threw him out. He’s sure everyone knows every detail of how that day had gone, knowing Seungcheol, and despite their attempts to seem as friendly as ever, he can feel it now, the eggshells they’re all walking on around him. 

Still, he smiles at Wonwoo and pretends as if nothing is wrong.

Because it isn’t.

They work like that for a while, making the occasional wry comment back and forth, until 7:00 comes and their shifts both end. The tension lifts a bit then as they talk about the bonfire tonight: who’ll be there, the likelihood of someone calling the cops to report an illegal fire, the big event Seungcheol’s surely got planned. Wonwoo has a hunch it’s going to be fireworks, but Hansol overhears them and insists it’ll be bigger.

“He’s done fireworks before. It’s passe, you know? I’m going with strippers.” He waggles his eyebrows and adds, “Male.”

“Seungcheol’s too cheap. If he wanted nudity, he’d just hire a few of us to streak down the beach,” Mingyu argues. 

“He’s done streaking before, too. Remember last winter? The Christmas party?” 

Now that Hansol mentions it, he _does_ remember the Christmas streaking. Well, barely. He’d been _very_ intoxicated. Come to think of it, he’s not sure whether he’d been among the streakers or not. Knowing his drunk self, he probably had. 

“That wasn’t on the beach, though,” Wonwoo points out. “That was in the parking lot of a Boomers. So this would be a vast improvement. Think about it… the grandeur of it all. The reckless abandon of some wild youth, exercising their freedom in its purest form.”

They both turn to stare at him, unsure if he’s on some literary tangent or engaging in wistful satire. Before Mingyu can dignify this remark with a response, someone clears their throat behind them, and he remembers they’re standing in the alleyway outside H Mart and technically loitering!

“Hello, my four sweet boys,” Seungcheol says with a warm, but still unmistakably authoritative, grin. “What are we up to out here?”

“There’s only three of us here,” Hansol says, frowning.

“I was including myself. Am I not a sweet boy?”

“Depends who’s asking,” Mingyu mutters, to which Seungcheol responds, “And what was that, Mingyu?” Feeling suddenly like a middle schooler caught gossiping, he doesn’t repeat himself, only lets his gaze go through Seungcheol and into the brick wall of the alley.

Seungcheol lets the moment pass without further comment. “I’m glad to see my good, good friends having a fun and social time out here.”

“Are we loitering?” Wonwoo guesses.

He shakes his head so quickly it’s near imperceptible. When he speaks, his voice is low, “No, no, just… you’re by the camera. Is all. And there’s sound.”

“There’s not — “ Mingyu looks up at the back door only to see the blinking red light of a security camera, one he can never recall seeing. “What the fuck. When did that get here?” 

Seungcheol gives him a tight smile. “Recently! Our upper management has taken notice of some, er, unpaid break issues. And has decided it may be time to monitor them.” Mingyu can read between the lines: Seungcheol’s smoke breaks, and Mingyu’s habit of joining him in them, have cost them their freedom. And now they’re loudly discussing their manager’s affinity for nudity and illegal acts of firework detonation. 

“That is very wise of them,” Mingyu says loudly, staring into the unseeing eye of the camera. “Personally, I felt a little bit too free out here. It was high time — “

Seungcheol punches him, hard, in the arm. 

“Hey! What was that for?” Mingyu whines, rubbing the tender spot.

“You need to shut. The fuck. Up,” Seungcheol mutters, too low for any microphones to pick up. “Seriously, Mingyu.”

He takes a step away from Seungcheol, now aware of how intensely Wonwoo and Hansol are watching him. God, Seungcheol had punched him _hard_. The spot on his arm has its own miniature pulse jumping under his skin. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I’ll — I’ll see you later.” Before he can think better of it, he grabs his backpack off the ground and walks out of the alley, back to the storefront where his bike awaits. As he rounds the corner, he can hear the insistent whispers of his friends and forces himself not to think about it. To enter the same serene, surreal headspace of shelf stocking where nothing is real and the world ceases to exist. 

God, when he puts it like that it sounds downright pathetic. Does he really not have any other hobbies? He roughly unlocks the bike chain and stares down at it for a moment, as if contemplating what to do next, like the action isn’t fully automatized by now. As he pedals away, he catches a flash of motion in his peripheral vision, slowing to a stop when he realizes it’s Hansol jogging alongside him.

“Hey,” he pants. “Hi. Sorry. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

If it had been anyone else on the planet — except maybe Minghao — he’d let his face harden, give an excuse, and continue on his merry way back to the apartment. But it’s Hansol, and his boyish good looks and concerned smile, the genuineness with which he carries himself… it stops him. He almost lets his facade drop. Almost.

“I’m fine,” he says, but says _fine_ in the way that sounds truthful and not a euphemism for _I am this close to walking off of a bridge_. Because he’s not! He’s not.

“You sure? We’re away from the camera, you know. We can talk freely,” Hansol jokes.

“I appreciate you checking on me. But I’m okay. I promise.”

Hansol shifts from foot to foot for a moment, eyes boring into his shoes. He says, “I’ve been thinking. I really think you and Seungkwan need to talk more. I know, that sounds weird, but… he gets it, y’know? He’s a good listener. And he’s fun to be around. But he understands a lot more than he lets on. I think it’s the psychology major in him.”

As friendly as Seungkwan is, Mingyu cannot envision himself using him as a therapist. Not even a free one. He’s nice, sure, and fun, but there are two people on Earth who Mingyu would ever talk to about anything beyond the superficial, and one of them has essentially thrown that trust back in his face. But Hansol’s looking at him almost hopefully, and he can’t tell him, _No, I don’t know your friend like that._

“The three of us really do need to hang out,” he says. “It’s been so long.”

Hansol gives him a look, the kind that says that he knows Mingyu’s completely circumvented everything he’s just said. Instead of calling him on it, though, he just nods. “I agree. We’ll see him tonight, though. We’ll arrange something.” A wicked, almost devilish kind of smile, and Mingyu understands why Hansol’s going on dates with a different girl every weekend. Who can resist that smile?

“Gotcha,” Mingyu says, and he and Hansol exchange aggressively platonic high-fives. Hansol gives him a “See you later, bro” as he pedals away, and as he rides, Mingyu can’t help but wonder just how many people Seungcheol’s dragged into this suicide watch.

* * *

Seungkwan double- and triple-checks tonight’s plans with Soonyoung and Minghao before he even leaves the house. He’s already told his cousins about his plans to stay overnight with Mingyu (he’s made something up about a fake movie night afterwards with the two of them plus Hansol) and made tentative plans to corner Mingyu sometime tonight to let him know he’s being used as a cover. He doubts Mingyu will mind, anyway, given that he’s Mingyu. He’ll also have to let Hansol know too, though Hansol is the least critical part of this plan. He also packs two extra sets of clothes in his backpack, along with his skincare, a book, his meds, and a tiny stuffed corgi. Just in case. Soonyoung still refuses to tell him how long they’ll be gone, so he tries to pack for a weekend trip — Minghao has class, after all, and Soonyoung is theoretically employed at a Chipotle (though this could be a cover similar to Jun’s, he realizes).

Seokmin hasn’t said much to him since he informed him about the Mingyu plan; after the conversation with Soonyoung, Seungkwan’s wary of him now, watching the way he reacts whenever he brings up Mingyu’s name. It’s subtle, the discomfort, but now that he’s looking for it, _really_ looking for it, it shows up everywhere — his hands, his posture, a slight furrow of his brow, his jaw stiffening. That’ll be a whole other mystery to unwind, but Seungkwan figures he has another seven weeks to pry it out of at least one member of the extended circle. He’s pondering all of this as he watches Seokmin in the mirror, adjusting his hair for the millionth time.

“LUDA! LEE! LIKES! YOU!” Chan yells at his brother’s reflection. “THIS! IS! ABSURD!”

Seokmin scowls, but doesn’t break eye contact with his mirrored self. He shifts one bang to the left, then, with a frown, back to the right. 

“Seokmin, Jesus Christ. Please, can we go?”

It’s at this moment that Auntie Jihyeon walks into the living room and whacks Chan on the head for his blasphemy. “Hey! Watch your mouth, young man.”

“Yes, Channie, be more like me. Saintly and wise. And handsome, of course,” says Seokmin, winking at himself and his mother through the glass. 

“Don’t forget humble,” Seungkwan chimes in.

“Well, that goes without saying.” He goes back to shuffling his bangs around, mouth twisted into a concentrated frown. So much for being handsome.

Meanwhile, Auntie Jihyeon is warning Chan not to get arrested, alternating between English and Korean. “You be careful. Don’t do anything illegal, Chan-ah. You hear me? You hear _eomma_?” 

“ _Ne, eomma_.” He nods, and when he catches Seungkwan’s eye he gives him a pained smile that’s practically begging for his cousin to step in.

“Auntie Jihyeon?” Seungkwan asks, turning to his aunt with all the _aegyo_ he can muster. “Can you help me with something for a moment?”

Concerned, Auntie Jihyeon looks over at him, allowing Chan to step away into the kitchen. Seungkwan concocts a story about needing to know how, exactly, to properly wash a cashmere sweater (even though Dongmin, of all people, had taught him that two years ago). All the while, Seokmin fluffs his bangs, pouting in the mirror like an Instagram model. Five excruciating minutes of laundry tutorials later, Seokmin finally appears to be satisfied, and he bellows Chan’s name until he appears with an impish grin and a bag of seaweed crisps.

“Be careful, okay? Be home by midnight! Remember, work tomorrow!” Auntie Jihyeon calls to them as they slip out the door. Seokmin yells “ _Ne, ne, ne”_ over his shoulder, and then they’re settling in the car, grinning at each other.

The drive to the beach is short, though it feels longer than it should; his leg shakes in the backseat, bouncing his backpack up and down on his knee. The deception’s getting to him, even though everything’s cleared, even though nobody suspects a thing. He considers slipping an Ativan into his mouth in secret, then realizes he’s only packed a handful. _Not yet. Just in case_. He’ll just drink instead. That’ll do the trick.

“Kwannie, Seokmin and I have been wondering. Where have you been slipping off to lately?” Chan asks, turning around in the passenger seat. His eyes are alight with curiosity, his teeth peeking out from his lips. 

Maybe he should’ve taken the Ativan. Seungkwan swallows, trying not to look like he’s lying. He says, “I like to drive around, I guess. Explore a bit.” 

“Was just wondering,” he says with a shrug. “It’s good to see you happy, you know.”

“And I wasn’t happy before?” Seungkwan asks, amused. They don’t know he’s on antidepressants; the last time he’d seen them had been a year ago, right before he’d started on them. _It’s noticeable then, the change_. 

Chan shrugs again. “I dunno. It’s just, like, this vibe you give off. Like, you feel more like yourself, if that makes sense. It probably doesn’t.” 

“I think what Channie’s trying to say is that you just seem less… weighed down. You always seemed so stressed before, and I’m guessing we see a more relaxed version of you than normal since this is your home, you know?” Seokmin says, gesturing with both hands. The Tesla begins to self-drive without complaint. “But now your real personality is starting to come out.”

Seungkwan can’t stop himself from snorting. “I highly doubt that. I still don’t feel like my real self. That person only comes out with _excessive_ drinking.”

“Yeah, but that’s because you’ve got to be in your element,” Seokmin argues. “When you’re with us, you’re comfortable. At least, I'd hope so.”

Guilt knots his stomach. God, there’s so much about him that Seokmin and Chan don’t know. He wishes then, for the first time ever, really, that he could tell them all of it. How he’s known he’s gay since he was little, since before he even left Irvine, and that he didn’t tell anyone for ten years, and that person was his college roommate whom he’d known for a grand total of ten minutes. How if he hadn’t met Bin that day and seen somebody like him, but out, he doesn’t know where he’d be, but since then he’s been freer than he’s ever been, and meeting Soonyoung and Minghao felt like meeting Bin again, because for once he doesn’t have to hide himself. It’s not even a big deal, if you think about it, since it’s not like it impacts every conversation or interaction he has, but it’s like _exhaling_. And they don’t know any of it. They don’t know about the sleepless nights or the panic attacks or the frantic trip to the hospital last summer. All they know is the happy-go-lucky, occasionally overthinking kid who goes to Georgetown. God, they really don’t know. And they don’t even know that they don’t know. It’s all eating at him now, in the backseat of the Tesla, and he makes a desperate grab for the Ativan. _Make it stop make it stop make it stop_. It’s all he can make himself think in that moment; _make it stop. Take the thoughts away_.

Seokmin laughs a little nervously. “Kwannie? You okay?”

He throws the pill into his mouth and swallows it dry. It’s small, half the size of the nail of his little finger, and goes down easily. He clears his throat then, feels it move down his esophagus, and says, “Sorry, got distracted — but yeah, uh. Yeah. I don’t know. That’s the California lifestyle, I guess!” He forces a chuckle. He can tell by Seokmin and Chan’s silence that this answer isn’t quite right, but he forces his mind to the Ativan snaking through his veins and chooses to believe it’s already begun working. _It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. They won’t stop loving you. It’s fine_.

And what do you know, they’ve made it to the beach already. The sun is beginning to set now, sitting low on the horizon, casting the sand and the waves aglow in pink and orange.

“Ahh, nothing like the pollution sunsets,” Seokmin sighs. 

“Don’t you love living in one of the most inefficient traffic systems in the world?” Chan says wistfully. They grab a tote bag full of towels and beach toys, underneath which rests a bottle of rum Seokmin had bought earlier in the day. Chan hoists it on his shoulder, grimacing as the heft of the alcohol swings into his ribs.

“You got that there, Channie?” asks Seokmin, and his brother nods in response.

They walk in amicable silence for a block or two, and Seungkwan tries not to let his jaw drop in awe the closer they get to the beach. _It’s the sun_ , he thinks dizzily, wondering if this soft euphoria is a result of the anti-anxiety drug taking effect. _The sun is just so beautiful_. He wants to reach out and touch it, and sitting there like that, dangling over the water, it feels almost like he can, like he can push a hand into the sky and pluck it like a ripe orange. He blinks, and he realizes he’s been staring — his eyes are watering, and he has to steady himself by pressing his fingernails into his palms. Seokmin and Chan don’t notice this development, the sudden distraction of their cousin, and instead are focused on greeting their high school friends. Seungkwan thinks they’re introduced to him as Jonghyun and Minhyun, but he can’t be sure. They slide in and out of his vision and his memory, and he follows Seokmin and Chan through the throng of people, focusing on the _swish-swish_ of his feet through the sand.

“Ah! Soonyoungie!” Seokmin cries, and throws himself into the arms of — who else? Soonyoung Kwon.

“Seokmin! Hi hi hello!” Soonyoung cuts a glance at Seungkwan and winks, then turns back to Seokmin and begins to chat about some old friend who’d ended up back in Korea.

Chan rolls his eyes, clearly bored, and takes Seungkwan’s arm. “Come on, let’s mingle a little,” he says. “We’ll go find the girls. Seokmin’ll definitely follow us over there.”

They thread their way through the loose crowd, and somewhere in the midst of all of this Chan ends up with a beer pressed into his hand. His cousin salutes whomever’s done him this favor, then presses on without another word. They end up in a half-circle of very skinny, very pretty girls who coo over Chan like he’s a puppy. Seungkwan vaguely recognizes Luda from their singular awkward encounter, and the girl with the blonde hair and the small frown…

Eunseo?

She looks up at him, brows furrowed. “Sorry? Do I know you?”

He realizes then that he’s spoken aloud. Chan turns to look at him, puzzled. “Do you know each other?” he asks.

“No, no, sorry, I…” Seungkwan shakes himself, tries to will his cheeks not to redden. “Sorry.” All possible explanations of him knowing Eunseo fly out the window for an excruciating, awful, awful minute that he’s glad he’s medicated for. Then, slowly, his words coming out jumbled at first, then too fast, “You looked familiar. We were… we were probablyinelementaryschooltogether?”

Eunseo purses her lips, and he’s sure she doesn’t believe him. Still, she nods a little, offering a lackluster, “Yeah, maybe? I think we were in the same class once.”

The other girls make noises of affirmation, and he’s grateful for once that people are indulging his awkwardness. Chan introduces the others as Meiqi, Seola, and Yeoreum, and they’re all polite enough. They all begin some inane conversation he can barely follow about the best taco place nearby, and he finds his attention drifting down the beach. Someone tall is making their way over to the circle, waving with their whole body, and as they draw closer he realizes it’s Mingyu, golden light illuminating the auburn in his hair. An acute wave of homosexuality hits him then as stares at him with the sunset beside him, grinning enough to show the little points of his canines. For a moment, Seungkwan lets himself imagine what it’d be like to be the one receiving that smile. To be the person someone like Mingyu is excited to see, to have someone run to him with that kind of abandon. He’d give anything in that moment to hold Mingyu’s hand in his, to hear that bubbly laugh, to watch the last of the light leave the sky with him.

God, this anti-anxiety medicine is potent. He hasn’t begun to drink yet and he’s already getting simultaneously wistful _and_ horny.

Mingyu jogs over, hair flopping over his face, and sidles next to Eunseo, placing a kiss on her temple. “Hell _o_ ladies,” he says as he slides an arm around her waist. Seungkwan’s stomach sloshes in the way it always does around potent heterosexuality, and he grabs the beer from Chan’s hand to take a long sip, lips puckering as the taste hits his tongue.

Chan gives him a curious look, but doesn’t ask.

The girls all giggle at Mingyu as he begins to launch into a story from work today, something about an old lady and a mix-up at the meat counter. All the while his hands dance along Eunseo’s hip, the movement natural even though she doesn’t lean into it. She’s not looking at Mingyu much, either, her gaze fixed on the ground as he speaks. 

Something about that isn’t right. Still, he can’t force himself to pay attention to it; when Mingyu’s speaking, it’s impossible to look at anybody but him. He tries not to look too rapt as he stares at him, drinking in the way he talks, the way he moves. Casual. Effortless.

Beautiful.

Before he knows it, the story’s over, and Seokmin’s arrived behind them.

“Howdy, howdy,” he says, voice flat as he spots Mingyu. Then he spies Luda, and his eyes light up instantly. “Catch you in a bit,” he mumbles, sliding past Seungkwan and Chan to join her on the other side of the semicircle. The two of them break off, chatting quietly among themselves, and the other girls start to giggle again.

“They’re so awkward,” the one maybe named Yeoreum says.

“It’s honestly so funny,” perhaps-Yeoreum adds. “Like, when will they finally just _date_ already?” She turns to Mingyu and Eunseo. “It took you guys long enough. Can’t you, like, tell them to make it happen or something?”

Eunseo laughs, placing her hand on Mingyu’s chest. “Not everybody can be as, er…” She looks up at him then, smiling a little. “Forward… as Mingyu.”

Mingyu raises a suggestive eyebrow as he leans down to kiss her. “How could I not be forward when you look like that?” 

Next to Seungkwan, Chan mimes gagging. “This is disgusting,” he says, and Seungkwan can’t help but agree. It’s like watching a car crash, almost, observing the two of them. You’d think he’d be used to it by now, the omnipresence of beautiful heterosexual men, but the sting never quite stops when it’s somebody he’s infatuated with. 

Seungkwan takes another swig of Chan’s beer.

“Joshua said he and Jeonghan’d be here,” Chan says to him, still staring at the Mingyu and Eunseo display with disdain. “Should we go look for them?”

Seungkwan nods. He’s not sure how much longer he can try to not look at the two of them; even with the alcohol and the benzodiazepines, it still turns his stomach, and he’s sure that if he were somewhere quiet, somewhere without the hum of activity, he’d hear his own thoughts creep back in. The mere thought of it makes him want another drink, and he takes the beer from Chan wordlessly. They say their goodbyes, promise to see the girls later tonight, and break away to look for their coworkers.

“I hope Seokmin doesn’t end up like that,” Chan says. “Like, I’m sure if I were in love or whatever, I’d be the same way. But I dunno, it just seems, like, rude.”

“It’s…” Seungkwan frowns, searching for the right word. “Yeah. It reminds me of high school, almost. Like, the performance of it all. How people would pair up just so everyone else would see them paired up? Like it’s for everyone else’s benefit instead of their own.”

Chan nods. “Yeah, yeah, exactly. It’s almost performative.”

If not for his clouded judgment, Seungkwan would probably think about this observation more, but he’s quite frankly not in the mood. Instead, he lets the thought pass, choosing to focus on the continued search for Jeonghan and Joshua. Night has come in earnest now, their only sources of light coming from the pier hundreds of meters away. 

Chan spots some classmate of his and promises Seungkwan he’ll be back in a minute. “I’ll be quick,” he says. “I just haven’t seen Hwiyoung in literal ages.”

As soon as Chan slips away, Minghao appears accompanied by a familiar-looking boy with round glasses and neat black bangs. “Hey,” Minghao says, greeting him with a nod in the usual Minghao way. “Saw you guys wandering around. Thought I’d say hi.”

“Yeah, we’re just… you know, saying hi to everyone,” Seungkwan says. He looks at the other boy and extends a hand, emboldened by his altered neurochemistry. “I’m Seungkwan, by the way.”

“Wonwoo,” the boy says, shaking his hand. “I’m sure we have around eighty people in common, knowing this circle.”

Seungkwan looks him over, pantomiming an expert examination. “Let me guess: you work at the H Mart,” he says, squinting. “You’re friends with Mingyu, so by extension you know Minghao. And since you work at the H Mart, you also know Seungcheol, and probably Hansol too. Because you’re adjacent to all of them, that means you probably know Seokmin, at least in passing, which means you’re at least one degree of separation from Chan, and definitely one degree of separation from me. And our parents also probably went to the same church, so if I told my mom I ran into you she’d immediately start asking me about how your mom’s doing.”

Neither Wonwoo nor Minghao respond for a moment, and Seungkwan’s stomach sinks as he realizes how strange this analysis must appear to people who barely know him.

Then Wonwoo’s cold facade cracks and he begins to giggle, his eyes scrunching up as he throws his head back. He has one of those laughs that’s totally at odds with his appearance, one of those infectious, bubbly kind of giggles that makes everyone else laugh along with him. Minghao starts laughing shortly after, and then Seungkwan can’t help but join them even though it’s _his_ joke. They all laugh until tears come to their eyes and they’re gasping for breath; it’s one of those moments, Seungkwan thinks, that he’ll remember forever. 

“You got me,” Wonwoo says finally, still smiling. 

They’re all still wheezing a bit as they continue chatting, Wonwoo complaining about the lack of culture in his friend group, Minghao saying how grateful he is that at least there’s one other literate person at the beach.

“Do you like to read?” Wonwoo asks, almost hopefully.

“I do! I don’t have much time for it, but I’m an English minor, so I have to do a lot of reading for class,” Seungkwan says, and from there, they’re all complaining about Ayn Rand for the next few minutes until Chan shows up, wide-eyed.

“Kwannie! I found Joshua and — oh, hi!” Chan looks from Seungkwan to Minghao to Wonwoo and back, mildly confused. “Minghao, right?” he says, pointing to the still-hiccuping Minghao. He nods, and Chan nods back, satisfied. “And you’re Wonwoo, obviously. Can’t forget a Sunday school classmate, right?”

“Obviously,” Wonwoo replies.

There’s a beat of silence, then Chan says, “Yeah, Kwannie, I found Josh and Jeonghan. If you still want to say hi.”

“Joshua and Jeonghan are here?” Minghao asks, and Wonwoo furrows his brow, too. Do they not all travel in the same circle? There’s got to be some overlap, hasn’t there?

Chan nods. “Yeah! They said they heard about it from Seokmin, who heard about it from Luda, who heard about it from Eunseo, who heard it from Mingyu, obviously.”

“That’s interesting,” Wonwoo says. “I haven’t seen them since high school. We used to be friends, too. Well, me, them, and Jun.”

“You were classmates?” Seungkwan asks. “With Jun?”

Wonwoo frowns, nonplussed. “How do you know Jun?”

Oh. How _does_ he know Jun? He’ll lie. He has to lie. He doesn’t know why he has to lie, but he does “Oh, I… he lives in DC, so I’ve seen him. I’m a big fan of Chipotle.”

“You’ve seen him around enough to know he knows us?”

Damn it, he was hoping Wonwoo would be as easy to distract as everyone else here. But he’s sharp, sharp in the way Hansol is, but doesn’t capitalize on — a digging, inquisitive kind.

“Oh, you know, Irvine people. It always comes up eventually,” Seungkwan says, with a forced casual wave.

Wonwoo doesn’t quite buy this, but thankfully, he drops it. “Yes, we were classmates. Me, him, Josh, and Jeonghan. They became a thing in tenth grade, I think? But they kind of dropped off the face of the earth after graduation.”

“Maybe Jun scared them away,” Minghao muses. “The lack of culture… astounding.”

It’s then, as if summoned, that Joshua and Jeonghan emerge from the dark and into the fringes of their circle. The movement doesn’t seem purposeful, as they don’t really acknowledge the four of them, but knowing Jeonghan, it’s a recon mission.

“ _Hyung_!” Chan cries, and Jeonghan’s head jerks up.

“Channie! What a coincidence,” says Jeonghan, the performative enthusiasm of the bakery gone, the underlying affection still there. He assesses the other three coolly, and Seungkwan notices his hand curl into Joshua’s, almost protectively.

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow, turning to Chan. “You call him _hyung_?”

“It’s a joke of ours,” Chan explains. “I don’t even call Seokmin that, but Jeonghannie _hyung_ kind of insisted, and now it’s just stuck, I guess.”

Jeonghan offers only a rolling shrug. “If it helps, Shua calls me that, too.” 

Even in the low light, Seungkwan can see Joshua blush. He’s been privy to those kind of jokes before, back in the kitchen when no one else is around, but he’s surprised Jeonghan’s bold enough to say these things here. Well, Minghao is fine, and he’s sure Wonwoo’s fine, too, considering they were in school together, but — 

“Noted,” Wonwoo says. “How have you guys been? I haven’t seen you in years.”

“You know, nothing too exciting. We work in the bakery, go to the movies, travel a bit.” Joshua looks over at Jeonghan, smiling at him not unlike the way Mingyu smiled at Eunseo earlier. “I’m trying to go back to school. I want to teach theater, maybe.”

Jeonghan doesn’t say anything about school, only nods in agreement. He’s rubbing his thumb along Joshua’s thumb slowly, the kind of gesture that twists Seungkwan’s stomach in an intense kind of longing and makes him feel like he should look away. Like it’s too intimate. But not in the same way Mingyu and Eunseo were; there’s something different about the two of them, something he can’t name.

“Hannie _hyung_ wants to teach, too,” Chan offers. “They’ll be really good at it.”

“That’s funny, that’s what I want to do -- I’m in a master’s English lit program. And come to think of it, Mingyu, too.” says Wonwoo. 

Seungkwan blinks in surprise. “Wait, really? Mingyu wants to teach?”

“He did, anyway. I remember him telling me that a few years ago — he wanted to teach little kids, like, elementary school kids.” Wonwoo shrugs. “Things happen. I don’t know if he still wants to or not.”

“I can see it,” Seungkwan says. “He’d be a great teacher.”

He’s not just saying that because he’s mildly in love with him. Mingyu’s got a gentleness about him, despite his looks and despite the way he tries to present himself. There’s something there, an underlying tenderness that’s almost childlike. Not that he knows him that well. Really, he knows his sleepy self more than his actual, sober self, but that’s the sense he gets. 

Minghao nods, taking a thoughtful sip of his drink. “He’ll get there. He just needs to get out of that job, into school, and it’ll happen.”

Something about this comment buries itself in his subconscious and he realizes something, something important. He turns to Chan then and says, “I’ll find you in a bit.” To Minghao: “You too.” 

Then he’s off, beer still in hand, searching the beach for a tall, distinctive silhouette.


End file.
